


Red Right Hand

by A_bit_not_good_yeah



Category: Silicon Valley (TV)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Hand Jobs, Humor, Injury Recovery, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Mutual Masturbation, Pining, Richard Hendricks is a Disaster, denial ain't just a river in egypt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-28
Updated: 2019-12-17
Packaged: 2020-09-28 06:26:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 22,982
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20421404
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/A_bit_not_good_yeah/pseuds/A_bit_not_good_yeah
Summary: Richard + cooking mishaps = hands out of commission. Who better to be Richard's hands than Jared?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I originally conceived of this first chapter as a much longer project but I got stuck and had a difficult time getting this one completed, so rather than have it languish away unread in my drafts forever, I'd rather it live and breathe in the world and maybe get some feedback that could spark a continuation one day. Shoutout as always to the SV Discord for helping do some hand-holding along the way.
> 
> ETA: obviously I worked through that and have been able to continue thanks to the SV Discord and particularly the fantastically generous joycecarolnotes :)

There's a crack in the tiny window near the ceiling in the garage.

Richard focuses on it, narrowing his eyes and tracing its path from the lower left corner to the upper middle of the pane of dusty glass. He makes a low, pained sound and clamps his mouth shut as his body strains forward in pleasure. _ Focus,_ he pleads with himself, _ it's fine, it's fine, _ trying not to retreat into himself too far, trying not to get lost in the warm waves of _ yeswantneed _ lapping at the shores of his insides. His thighs are trembling and he's ignoring the firm line of heat behind him, surrounding him. The hand on his cock moves faster. He's slick with precome and lube (_decadent, _ his mind supplies, a Jared word, unbidden), there's sweat damp in a cluster between his shoulder blades, and his hips are beginning to snap up in short, aborted thrusts, he's so close, so fucking close, and then warm breath flutters against the side of his neck from behind and the dam breaks. Richard's back arches, his head lolling back against the bony shoulder behind him, and he squinches his eyes shut tightly. “Oh fuck, fuck, _ fuck,” _he groans as he comes hard over Jared's fist. 

Jared’s left arm is wrapped around Richard’s stomach, holding him close. They’re sitting on Jared's cot in the garage, Jared with his back against the wall and Richard in front of him, tucked into the vee of Jared's legs and leaning back against his chest. The dim blue glow of the garage is quiet but for Richard's gasping breaths and the obscene, slick little sounds of Jared's right hand as he continues to stroke gently, milking Richard's cock until he shudders and whines at the oversensitivity. As his breath returns, Richard feels the leaden weight of calm satisfaction seep throughout his body and sags back against Jared, boneless. He's warm and surrounded and he feels so, so safe. 

He shifts back, burrowing into the heat enveloping him and feels more than hears the quick intake of Jared's breath at the same moment he feels a hard, thick line pressing into the small of his back. Oh god. That means Jared is.

That he was.

While touching Richard, _ because _of touching Richard, he was...

A flare of something dark and hot coils through his gut with sudden, shocking speed and he yelps, struggling up out of Jared's arms and clumsily launching himself to a standing position. 

"Richard, I'm sorry, I didn't intend for you to -" Jared begins, clearly alarmed at Richard's sudden action, but Richard is too busy trying and failing to get his pants back up. 

"Nope, I'm good yeah, that was," Richard's tugging at the elastic waistband of his khakis, struggling to pull them up with hands that are covered in thick bandages. "That was uh, thank you for." He clears his throat, and stumbles a little to the side as he finally gets his pants all the way on. "For doing that, that was. Uh. A big. Big help. Ok g'night Jared!" He mumbles and scurries to the door back to the house, but he curses inwardly, realizing his error. Knobs. He can't work knobs with his hands like this.

Staring resolutely at the doorknob, willing it to turn, he hears Jared get up and walk the few paces to the door. Watches as Jared's clean hand turns the knob for him slowly. Richard keeps his head down, his heart hammering in his chest as Jared quietly pushes the door open and steps back so Richard can pass. "Goodnight, Richard," he says softly and his voice sounds so withdrawn into himself that Richard can't help but turn back to look at him. 

Jared offers a feeble smile and Richard returns it, staring into the dark blue pools of Jared's eyes in the dim light. The moment spins out, both of them frozen in place but unwilling to move. "I'll...see you tomorrow, right?" Richard finally offers and it seems to lift some weight from Jared, who nods in affirmation and closes the door carefully.

Richard tiptoes to his room in the dark and lays down on his mattress, moved to the floor so he doesn't have to climb the ladder with his bandaged hands. He can still feel that little ruffle of Jared's breath warm against his neck, and he shivers. This doesn't have to be weird. Jared's just being a good friend, helping out another friend. That's all this is, and it's only temporary. Things will be back to normal soon.

As Richard slides into a dreamless sleep, he almost starts to believe the lies he's telling himself. 

*** 

FOUR DAYS EARLIER

It’s Dinesh’s fault. He was picking a fight with Gilfoyle over some stupid bullshit competition they were having over who was better at “adulting,” whatever the fuck that meant. Richard had tuned them out hours ago, but the drone of their bickering was starting to dig into his skull like an ice pick. 

“Guys! Please! Shut the fuck UP already,” Richard snaps, and both Dinesh and Gilfoyle turn their heads to stare at him directly. He should have known better than to engage. 

“Oh, care to weigh in here, _ Dick _?” Gilfoyle smirks.

“Yeah, when’s the last time you did _ anything _for yourself, Richard?” Dinesh chimes in.

“What the fuck are you talking about? I do tons of things for myself, I just finished reviewing your third block of code today--”

Gilfoyle cuts him off. “Not work-related. We’re talking about life skills here.” 

“I’ve got plenty of life skills!”

“Oh really,” Dinesh says, crossing his arms. “When’s the last time you did your own laundry?”

“Um...I mean, not _ that _long ago,” Richard frowns, but he can’t really remember.

“Because Jared does it for you,” Dinesh answers, smug.

“And your bills? Phone, insurance, utilities, that sort of thing. You’re the one making sure those get paid, right?” Gilfoyle adds. 

“Well, not lately, I mean the accounts go through Jared and--”

“Right. _ Jared _ takes care of all of that.”

“Do you even know how to cook a meal for yourself, dude?”

“No, Dinesh, he doesn’t. Why would he need to cook when Jared does it for him? I’m sure it’s only a matter of time before he starts chewing up your food and spitting it into your mouth, mama bird style.”

“That’s not even - there’s no _ bird _, I can..do it myself,” Richard sputters out lamely, and Dinesh and Gilfoyle share a significant look of superiority. Satisfied that their point has been made, they both turn back to their monitors leaving Richard confused and angry. At least they’d stopped bickering. 

Jared comes in the front door then, back from dropping some papers off at Ron LaFlamme’s office, and immediately says, “How’s the code review going, Richard? Are you hungry? Would you like me to make you a sandwich?”

At Dinesh and Gilfoyle’s unsubtle snickering, Richard snaps, “No, Jared, I’m fine, I’m not helpless. I can still fucking feed myself!” and stomps off to the kitchen. Jared follows behind, confused, but Dinesh stops him by saying, “He’s just going through a rebellious phase. Kids, am I right?”

Richard isn’t even really that hungry, but it’s the principle of the thing now. He can make something for himself, he’s _ not _ a fucking kid, but also he doesn’t really know how to go about proving that because he. 

Well he doesn’t actually know. 

How to cook anything.

He rummages through the freezer because that seems the safest option for something to eat that technically qualifies as cooking without, y’know. Cooking. If the oven is involved, that has to count, right? He finds a vegan lasagna and takes it out - that’s perfect, he can make it and even share it with Jared and that will show him, show them all that he’s not some egomaniacal monster or some shiftless child, he can _ do things _, goddammit. 

He puts the plastic tub containing the lasagna into the oven, then turns it to the right temperature. In - he checks the box - 50 minutes, that will show those assclowns. He and Jared will be eating delicious...well, edible vegan lasagna and Dinesh and Gilfoyle can just suck a three foot dick about it. Pleased with his handiwork, Richard goes back to the workroom and goes back to his code review. When Jared looks at him questioningly, Richard shoots him a grin and waggles his eyebrows. Yeah. He’s killing this. 

*** 

“Do you smell something burning?” Jared asks, sniffing the air experimentally.

“Huh? Oh FUCK,” Richard clambers up, looking at the clock. He forgot to set a timer and it’s been over an hour since he put the lasagna in.

“Everything okay in there, Bobby Flay?” Gilfoyle calls while Richard grabs a towel and opens the oven door. The smell of burnt plastic greets him and he grimaces. He grabs the plastic pan with the towel and manages to pull it out while shutting the oven door with a bang. But the plastic starts to burn his hand through the towel, so on reflex he goes to grab at the lasagna with his left hand. As soon as he makes contact he realizes that was a terrible idea and fumbles to release the burning tray, but that’s when the pan buckles. Hot tomato sauce and soy cheese spill over the edges of the flimsy plastic, splattering all over both of Richard’s hands. He yowls in pain and hears an answering shriek of “Richard! Your hands!” from behind him as Jared comes running into the kitchen. Spinach and chunks of tomatoes rain down upon the stovetop. 

This is why Richard doesn't cook.

***

“What’d you do this time, Richard? Too many mushrooms at Burning Man, fell into a campfire? Been there, my friend,” Richard’s doctor asks cheerily as he examines Richard’s red, blistered fingers. 

“What? No, I - I was cooking and--”

“You? Cooking? You strike me more as a cereal-and-Funyuns kinda guy.”

Richard huffs in frustration. “Why does everyone keep saying that? I can take care of myself!” 

“Okay, okay, no need to get testy. So how did this happen?" he asks, turning Richard’s hands over carefully and assessing the damage.

"I was...taking a vegan lasagna out of the oven," Richard mumbles. 

"Oh god, really?” He drops Richard’s hands in disgust. “You’re a vegan? I ask you, how am I supposed to earn a living without carnivores and their heart disease? One former patient, he was from Texas, he ate 12 Big Macs A WEEK. Basically paid for my daughter's college."

Richard just stares at him for a long beat before the doctor continues, "Aaah, ok you got me - I can't stay mad at that face! You're lucky you're one of my favorite patients, Richard. And lucky that you’re only going to lose _ some _ of these fingers instead of all of them!" 

Richard pales immediately, blinking back his shock. "Are - are you serious?"

"No! Of course not. You’re nowhere near one of my favorite patients.” The doctor laughs merrily, then turns suddenly serious. “These are definitely partial-thickness burns, though, so we’re gonna give you some antibiotic ointment, wrap these up in gauze, and you’re gonna have to rest your hands for at least three weeks.” 

“But - I have to type! How will I get any work done?” Richard cries, his eyes bugging out.

“You live in the technology capital of the world. You’ll figure it out - unless you want to get an infection, get some skin grafts, maybe actually lose a couple digits. It’s fine by me either way, my daughter’s looking into grad school.” The doctor busies himself getting some ointments and gauze ready while Richard starts to panic.

***

Jared takes him to pick up his prescription ointment and spends more time than probably necessary selecting between different types of gauze and other bandages to bring home. 

“Jared can we just - “

“Oh Richard, I know, it’s just this hemp-fiber gauze would be more sustainable but I’ve read horror stories about those hemp fields, the excruciating conditions, I can send you the podcast link--”

“Just PICK ONE and let’s go home, ok?” 

“A craftsman is only as good as his tools, Richard, and your hands are Pied Piper’s most precious tools. They shape the clay that is your vision for this company, and it’s my responsibility, my _ privilege _to maintain those tools, to tend and care for them as best I can.” Jared’s looking at him with those wide, earnest, upsettingly blue eyes and Richard can’t find it in himself to tell him no. He got into this mess by trying to prove how capable he was on his own, after all. Best to just let Jared handle things from here. 

***** 

Four days later, he finds himself standing in front of the door to the garage without really remembering the conscious decision to get there. Four days of bitter frustration, four days of painstaking explanations of coding blocks to Dinesh and Gilfoyle, four days of Jared making him protein-enriched smoothies and sandwiches with the crusts cut off because he can't even hold utensils (and because Richard told him once that his mom only cut the crusts off when he was sick, which is such a Jared thing to remember and he tries not to think about that too much because it makes him feel tangled up inside in a way he can’t bring himself to examine). Four days of slowly, steadily, maddeningly growing need and the increasing desire to just claw his own skin off.

The house is dark and quiet, the guys presumably in their rooms. Richard sways a little on his feet, but he's got just enough alcohol swimming through his veins that he doesn't second guess himself when he taps his fingertips against the door.

"Jared?" He rasps, and he can hear the soft padding of Jared's footsteps before he opens the door.

"Richard! It's late," Jared says, looking soft and unguarded in his plain white tee shirt and plaid flannel pajama pants, his mouth turning down at the corners in that smile that Richard doesn't understand. He likes the look of it, though. Catches himself staring at it. “Can I uh...come in?” Richard asks with a nervous little giggle, and Jared steps aside to let him enter the dim garage. The lights are off, but the blue glow of Anton means there’s enough light to see. 

“Is everything alright? Can I make you some tea?” Jared asks quietly, making his way to his cot to sit down. Richard sits in the armchair opposite and leans in close. Their knees bump. 

“I don’t need tea.” 

Jared smiles his milky smile and lets his hands rest on his knees primly. “Well what brings you to my humble abode, as it were, this evening? Is something troubling you? Are your hands bothering you?”

“I went to a bar tonight,” Richard blurts. 

“Oh! Well you have been under so much stress due to your injury, it’s understandable you would want to blow off a little steam.” 

“No. No no,” Richard shakes his head just a tad too aggressively, feeling loose-limbed and buzzy. “You don’t - I went to a _ bar_. With _ women_.”

“Ah,” Jared says and gives Richard a coy little smile. _ We have a secret. _ “You met someone. Well, whoever she is, I’m sure she’s already composing odes to your aristocratic beauty to her friends.” 

“No, _ no_,” Richard huffs, annoyed. “I’m not - there’s no woman. I mean, I tried, I fucking _ tried,_ but I couldn’t...I can’t even hold a beer, it’s fucking pathetic, the bartender gave me a straw because she felt sorry for me and I thought she might, might want to, but she was just being polite and I can’t - I can’t--” he looks up at Jared, pleading with him to understand, to not make him spell out how desperate, how absolutely fucking out of his mind he is.

“Richard,” Jared says, a wrinkle forming between his eyebrows in concern. “What’s really bothering you?”

“I can’t concentrate!” Richard bursts out, cheeks flushing. “I can’t focus, I’m crawling out of my fucking skin, and I just need - I just need...” He meets Jared’s eyes again and gets caught there before he stares down at his feet and mumbles, “Ican’tjerkoff.”

Jared leans in closer. “What?”

“I can’t jerk off,” Richard groans, and tries to bury his face in his bandaged hands but he hisses as the bandages press against his burns and lets his hands fall back down to his lap. “It’s so fucking embarrassing, but I...I have to. Like, every day usually. It clears my head, it helps me sleep and if I can’t, I...I just, I thought I could meet a girl and maybe, but who the fuck am I kidding, I mean,” he shakes his head with a humorless chuckle and keeps his eyes on the floor, “have you ever heard anything more goddamn pathetic?” 

The garage is so quiet, and all Richard can hear is the hushed, steady hum of Anton and Jared’s even, measured breathing. “I could,” Jared says so softly Richard almost doesn’t hear him. “I could help. If you need assistance.”

Richard sucks in a breath like he's been punched. _ Isn't that what you came here for? _ a slick, oily, _ horny _ goblin's voice inside him asks. _ You knew he would offer, you _ wanted _ him to offer, didn't you, Richard? _

“You’d - you'd do that? For me?” He manages to look up and Jared’s gaze is boring into him, ghostly in the darkness surrounding them. 

“If it helps. I’ve read multiple studies on the benefits of ejaculation on productivity, particularly in workplaces that contain high amounts of testosterone. And if it’s a medical issue, one that’s affecting your ability to perform at your best, it’s my job as the designated HR coordinator to provide ah, accommodations.” He steeples his fingers together and Richard can’t stop staring at them, those long, clever fingers filling the space between them, imagining them wrapping around him and he gulps, audible in the quiet garage.

"I'm not gay," Richard says, too rushed and loud for the small space.

"No one is questioning your sexuality here, Richard," Jared replies. "I am available to help in any capacity that you need as part of your recovery. I could be your hands - what you do with them is up to you." He spreads his hands palm up, an open invitation. 

“Yeah, that’s. That would be. Yeah.” Richard nods, slow at first and then more emphatically. “If you, I mean - if you want to. Help. With the, uh. Medical issue.” He’s half-hard in his khakis already just thinking about it, and his buzz has worn off enough to know that’s pretty fucking sad. 

Jared’s eyes flutter shut and he takes in a long, deep breath, then slowly exhales and opens his eyes again, gaze trained on Richard. “How do you usually masturbate?”

Richard startles out a high-pitched, nervous laugh. “Um. The normal way?”

Jared smiles at him indulgently, and Richard feels warmth bloom in his stomach in a pleasant, swimmy way. “I want to provide you with what you need, Richard, but you’ll have to tell me what that is exactly. Penile stimulation only? Prostate stimulation? Pain or asphyxiation play? Any particularly sensitive erogenous zones - ears, nipples, feet--”

“NO," Richard squawks, "that’s - just a hand on my dick would be--” he breaks off, flushing a deep red. “Let’s just keep it simple, ok?” Images are flooding his mind in all kinds of creative possibilities (_for next time, _ the boner goblin's voice inside him whispers and he shoves the thought away) and he’s definitely more than half-hard now, jesus, he’s gonna go off like a shot the second Jared touches him at this rate. 

Jared leans over to rummage in his small night stand next to his cot and Richard wrenches himself away from thinking about the tiny strip of skin exposed when Jared’s tee shirt rides up only through sheer power of will. He’s so keyed up, it seems anything is turning him on. _ Don't be a creep, _he tells himself. Jared is just being a good friend, an exceptional friend actually, and that's why he came here, right?

“Would you like me to help you with your pants?” Jared asks and Richard nods, heat prickling over his skin at the twisted mix of shame and excitement and arousal he feels. He stands up so that Jared can lean forward to gently ease his khakis down his legs. The position puts Jared at eye level with Richard’s crotch, and there's no way he doesn't notice that Richard's getting hard already, practically gagging for it like some amped up teenager. Another flash of heat runs through him at how desperate he must seem to Jared with his kind eyes and his accommodating presence, Jared who would give him this out of the goodness of his heart and never ask for anything in return, who only wants to help him, to - what did he say - _ tend to him. _ His cock twitches at the thought and, though it’s difficult to tell in the low light, Richard swears he sees Jared lick his lips, just a tiny pink dart of tongue. He sways on his feet, dizzy at the idea of a warm, wet mouth on his cock and Jared’s eyes flick up to meet his which is obscene in this context, it’s _ dangerous _ how much Richard suddenly _ wants _ and he rasps out, “Maybe you shouldn’t face me.”

Jared blinks as if rebooting and nods, decisive. "Why don't you come here and sit in front of me? It might feel more like you're ah, taking matters into your own hands." He scooches back on the cot and Richard shuffles forward, sitting down in the vee of Jared's legs with his back against Jared's chest. The warmth of Jared's body seeping through his thin white tee shirt makes Richard shiver just a little and he can feel Jared's enormous right hand resting tentatively on his upper thigh. 

"Is this alright, Richard?" he asks in an almost whisper. The sound of Richard's heart hammering in his chest is deafening and his mouth has gone dry. He tries to speak but all that comes out is a shuddery breath. “Y-yeah. Yes,” he manages, and Jared’s palm trails up until it’s resting low on his belly, his fingers tracing over the waistband of the threadbare boxers.

Normally, Richard isn’t coy with himself. He might pull up one or two videos on PornHub if he’s looking to spice things up, but as a lifelong indoor kid, he’s developed a pretty active imagination. A selection of tried and true fantasies can get him from zero to coming in just a few minutes flat so he can carry on with his day or collapse into long-awaited sleep. No muss, no fuss.

The way Jared is touching him though - soft caresses against his skin, teasing touches along his inner thighs, just the barest brush of pressure over his erection through the thin fabric of his boxers - it’s like he’s never been touched before. Jared’s chest is a firm wall of heat behind him and he can feel the sharp point of Jared’s chin hooked over his right shoulder. He must be watching, is he watching? Cataloguing Richard’s reactions, making an internal SWOT board of the best way to take him apart? Richard is taking harsh, rough, panting breaths already and he feels suddenly, shockingly sober as Jared squeezes his length through the fabric, stroking a thumb over the damp spot forming at the head.

Suddenly the warmth of Jared’s hand is gone and Richard feels panic flood through him. Is Jared having second thoughts? His eyes snap open - he hadn’t realized he’d shut them - and he hears the _ snkt _of a bottlecap opening. Then Jared’s voice, low and silky against his ear, “Richard, do you want me to touch you now?”

Richard whimpers, shame and arousal burning through him at how bad he needs this, then digs his teeth into his lip to cut off the desperate sound. “Yes, fucking, just - please,” he chokes out and Jared’s broad, slick hand curls around his cock, stroking it from root to tip. It feels so good Richard wants to cry - he rarely uses actual lube to jerk off, and the kind Jared has feels luxurious against his overheated skin. _ What do you think he uses all that slick for? _ the boner goblin purrs and Richard growls, honest to god growls at the thought of Jared here on this cot stroking himself, Jared pushing two fingers inside himself, working himself open. Or worse - a slideshow of women’s faces flit through his mind, women holding cardigan sweaters or small clutch purses, women passing through the kitchen as Richard pours himself coffee, women kissing Jared on the cheek in the entryway, a parade of sensible heels click-clacking on the tile. _ This is what he uses with _ ** _them,_ ** the boner goblin hisses, and Richard’s dick pulses hot in Jared’s hand. He’s just another conquest. A flare of jealous anger rips through him, white-hot. 

_ No, that’s not what this is,_ he thinks a little desperately as Jared’s fingertips curl down to play with Richard’s balls for a moment before he goes back to stroking his cock, slow and sweet. He tilts his head down to look and feels delirious watching the glossy head of his dick disappearing and reappearing through the circle of Jared’s fist. If he closes his eyes tight and focuses he can pretend it's his own hand sliding up and down, his own huge, enormous, _ hot _hand twisting under the head, thumbing over the tip, making him shudder and gasp. 

"Is that how you like it?" Jared says soft, his lips brushing in a shivery drag against Richard's right ear and oh GOD does Richard like it, he likes it _ so much, _ it scares him because this is _ Jared _ touching him, what kind of boss asks his employee to do this, this is the worst kind of violation but he can't _ sleep _ he can't _ think _ he's going out of his _ mind _ with how badly he needs to come and Jared offered didn't he, helpful Jared always so _ helpful, _ it was his idea, he always takes care of Richard and gives him exactly what he needs and this is no different, this is for medical purposes, it's physical therapy, it's - 

Jared's left arm winds around Richard's stomach, holding him in place to prevent the aggressive and involuntary thrusting of his hips up and Richard whines, his illusion broken. He can’t help it, more, he needs more, if these were his hands he’d be done by now, he can’t take this torturous, delicious knife’s edge and Jared knows, Jared’s right there, his right hand continuing to work over Richard's cock just this side of enough, he needs it, he needs Jared to never stop - _ no, _ he thinks, retreating back into himself, _ my hand, it’s my hand, I’m doing this, I’m in control and it feels so - fucking - good _ and Richard moans, a guttural sound escaping his throat. "Does that feel good?" Jared whispers, breath hot against Richard's jaw and that's not fair he can't -

"Shut up, shut up, stop talking," Richard pants and immediately regrets it. Jared's hand stutters in its movements, then keeps going. Wait, fuck, no, it's not like that, he didn't mean to - _ it doesn't matter, Jared's not here, it's just you and your own hand, right? Focus, FOCUS. _

He's so close and he wants this over with (_please don't stop_), he needs to come, needs it like breathing so he can get out of here and go back to his own bed and forget this ever happened (_until next time_) so he finds something, anything to fixate on as his breath quickens and his thighs begin to tremble. His eyes dart over the walls, the shelves, the windows - ah, the window, where he can see a sliver of the night sky and the muted blackness beyond. The window to the outside world, kept away and separate from this protected little bubble, this space that holds secrets. 

Richard's glad the angle's all wrong; he's never liked looking at his own reflection. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to the incomparable joycecarolnotes for her beta-ing skills, and for helping to shape my ill-formed, angst-ridden ideas into something slightly more coherent.

The next day, Richard wakes with a pounding in his head and a sour taste in his mouth. He lays there, face down on his mattress, groggily processing the idea of a new day dawning when he remembers. His eyes fly open and he blinks rapidly as memories flit through his mind in a stutter-shuffle of technicolor horror. Jared. Jared’s _hands_. Jared’s hands on him, touching him, holding him, wringing him out until he’s gasping and shuddering and - 

Oh fucking fuck _fuck this is so fucked up. _How could he have done this? How could he have let Jared convince him - okay, convinced himself maybe - that this was a good idea? Richard twists dramatically on the bed, flopping like a fish and flinging his arms over his eyes to avoid facing the monumentally catastrophically awkward truth when he hears a soft knock on his bedroom door. 

“Richard? I brought you some breakfast,” Jared’s soft, cheerful voice carries through the door and Richard lowers his arms from his eyes to stare at the wood. Jared sounds completely normal. 

“Richard? May I come in?”

“Hrngk,” Richard manages to squawk, his throat seizing up along with his brain. 

“Oh good, you’re awake!” Jared bustles in with a tray containing a banana already peeled and sliced, an egg sandwich with the crusts cut off, and a steaming mug of coffee with a straw in it. He places the tray gently down on Richard’s desk as he says, “You have a budget meeting at 10 and I’ve sent you the latest breakdown of our current burn rate. Do you need help wrapping your hands in plastic so you can shower?”

“No,” Richard squeaks, then clears his throat. “Uh. No, that’s alright. Thanks, Jared.”

“Always glad to be of assistance!” Jared chirps, fucking _chirps_, like a cartoon bird sent to braid Richard's hair and sing a song about sunrise, and he beams at Richard with his usual soft-focus anime eyes before he turns to leave and make his way back to the kitchen. 

So. Everything seems to be...fine. Jared’s not making hurt puppy dog eyes at him or avoiding him. He’s just being his normal Pollyanna Who Could Kill a Motherfucker self. Maybe...maybe this is all fine. Richard’s one-time lapse in judgment doesn’t have to doom the company or his friendship with Jared or anything, for once. They can stay...doomless. Great. That’s.

That’s really great. 

Richard gets up out of bed in an ungainly tangle of limbs and stares at the breakfast tray for a moment before popping a banana slice into his mouth. It was just a fluke, he tells himself. An aberration, a stray bracket in a long line of flawless code. This is all gonna be fine. He just has to make sure it doesn’t happen again and everything will be smooth sailing. 

***

It happens again. 

***

The budget meeting is excruciating, and Richard is clearly distracted the entire time. When it’s finally over, he ducks Monica’s stink eye and takes a Lyft back to his doctor’s office. 

“Richard! What’s the problem now?” His doctor grins, giving his hands a perfunctory once-over. “Nothing’s fallen off...yet.” 

Richard’s eyes widen for a moment, then he shakes his head to clear it. He’s fucking with him, clearly - man, this guy really is a terrible doctor. If Richard didn’t hate change so much he’d find a new one but at least there was something slightly comforting about someone who didn’t treat him like he was a precious genius or someone to pin all their hopes and dreams on. After the last few years of constant, unyielding pressure, sometimes it’s actually nice to encounter someone who is utterly indifferent to his existence. 

“Um, so I was wondering about that antibiotic cream that you prescribed, I’ve been using it and I think everything is going ok it’s just, and I should have asked before but, y’know. Hands on fire. But um, are there any major side effects from, from something like that? Like impulsiveness? Increased um...libido?” he stage whispers. “Or, or reckless behavior? Lack of...doing...smart...things?” 

The doctor stares at him confused. “What? No. It's basically penicillin. Are you high right now?”

“No!” now it’s Richard’s turn to be confused. “Why would you- ” 

“Because I could help you with that.” He crosses his arms and leans back against the sink, heaving a great sigh. “Richard, you’re what we in the medical field like to call ‘a big downer.’ So if you want, I could definitely prescribe you something to fix all this needless worrying.”

Richard scrunches his lips into a frown. “Are you - are you saying I need like, anti-anxiety meds?”

The doctor just rolls his eyes. "No, you're definitely a super chill guy. Just keep changing the bandages every couple of days, come back in a week. Or don't, I don't really care."

Blinking, Richard stumbles out of the office and catches the next bus home. Somehow, he doesn’t feel any better. 

***

After a day of frustrated stops and starts trying to use voice-to-text coding programs (each one more shit than the last), that less-than-helpful checkup, and the budget meeting that wouldn’t end, all Richard wants to do is collapse into bed early and forget this day ever happened. He manages to change into threadbare pajama pants and an old Boomer Sooner t-shirt before he lands face-first on the mattress and wills sleep to come swallow him up.

HIs hands are itchy. He feels itchy all over, actually, sticky and overwarm in a way he knows means sleep isn’t coming. 

_Need to take the edge off?_ an oily voice slithers through his mind and Richard shudders. Stupid body with its stupid hormones and its stupid greedy ravenous dick that never seems to be satisfied. He’s not going to involve anyone else this time - he can do this if he concentrates. It’s his problem, he can do it himself.

Richard starts by closing his eyes and picturing his 11th grade homeroom teacher, Ms. Applegate. She’s tall, curvy, chestnut brown hair falling in soft waves around her face, and she’s got the most incredible green eyes. Richard always felt like she could see right through him, and he squirms in his seat just at the idea of her knowing how often she’s starred in his fantasies. They’re alone in her classroom and she’s leaning down over his desk to scold him with a ruler in her hand. “This is the third time you’ve turned in your homework late this week, Richard,” she admonishes. “You’re the brightest student in class, so what’s the problem? What are we going to do about this?” He’s staring at the soft swell of her breasts threatening to spill out her tight v-neck sweater and he’s starting to get hard under her scrutiny. This fantasy has been his go-to to rev himself up for over 10 years, and he sees no reason to dismiss that track record now. 

“Get up,” she orders and fantasy-Richard complies, hands clasped over his crotch to hide the growing evidence of his erection. The shame thrills through him, and real life-Richard pulls his hips back to drag his cock slowly against the mattress. It’s rough, too much friction, and he huffs a hot breath into his pillow at how good it feels. 

“Show me what it is that’s been distracting a smart boy like you so much,” Ms. Applegate demands, gesturing with the ruler at Richard’s crotch. 

“Um...M-Miss?” Richard stammers, and she slaps his hand with the ruler, the sting of it biting deliciously into his skin. 

“Go on, Mr. Hendricks, I haven’t got all day.” 

Fantasy Richard scrambles to get his jeans unbuttoned and unzipped, shoved carelessly down just enough to get his dick out and into his hand. God, he misses being able to do this, to touch himself exactly the way he wants, thinking of exactly who he wants. None of this confusing emotional garbage in the mix. As he humps against his mattress like a hormone-crazed teenager, he looks up into Ms. Applegate’s bright blue eyes as she asks him in a low, distinctly male voice that makes the hair on the back of his neck stand up, “Does that feel good?”

Richard’s eyes snap open and his nervous system shorts out like he’s just been doused in cold water. _It could feel better_, the boner goblin pipes up. _It could feel **so **much better._

_STOP IT, _Richard thinks and takes a deep breath. He closes his eyes again, and calls up a different fantasy. Something basic, easy. One of the only successful college hookups he ever had yielded an incredible blowjob from a brunette named Stacey, and he brings it to mind now. His hands buried in her dark hair, her long slender throat working as she bobbed her head to take all of him in. He focuses on the tight, wet heat, trying and failing to recreate the sweet drag of her tongue on his cockhead as his hips snap fruitlessly to get more friction. He’s sweating now, and panting a little from the exertion, his cock so hard that he’s leaking in his pajama bottoms and all he’s accomplishing is a maddening tease that’s driving him to the brink of desperation. _You know there’s another option_, the boner goblin hisses, and Richard lets out a breathy moan into his pillow at the shame and frustration. 

_Concentrate on Stacey_, he pleads with himself, focusing on the sharp lines of her cheekbones as she hollows around him, the way her eyes are hooded and sultry as she gazes up at him, the way that dark hair feels so soft under his fingers, like silk, the way Jared moans around him as he takes Richard’s cock in deeper--

“FUCK,” Richard bites off angrily and stops moving, his heart jackrabbiting in his chest and his dick throbbing where it’s trapped against the mattress. _It doesn’t have to be like this, you can take care of this problem. Jared doesn’t even think it’s weird, it was fine, he was FINE, and he’s not even doing anything useful with his hands right now. You know how much Jared loves to be useful, _the boner goblin coos. _He’s so warm, and he wants to help, you know he wants to help. _

“I can’t,” Richard says to no one, but he’s getting up from his bed and walking zombie-like to his door. _You’re doing him a favor, really. He wants to be generous, it’s what Jared lives for. He volunteers himself up like, like he’s a fucking _offering, _like it’s _nothing_, like that tree in that kid's book that gives and gives and gives until there's nothing left but a stump, and you need something right now, something he can give you. Let him give what he wants to give, _the boner goblin purrs, seductive and so very reasonable.

Richard tastes bile at the back of his mouth and his feet feel like lead as he creeps to the garage. He taps softly on the door and Jared is there in what seems like an instant. Like he was waiting for Richard’s will to fail, waiting to offer himself up. For Richard. Again. The thought makes Richard throb once more, and he lets out a sharp, pained sound. He’s so hard it hurts now and he knows Jared can help, wants to help, it's about **helping** and and and he can make it up to Jared, he will, but right now he needs a hand, literally, and Jared offered his so he's going to take it.

“Richard...” Jared starts to say, but Richard crowds him back into the garage, his body and mind on overload and frustrated tears threatening to spill. 

“Please,” he croaks in a tiny, broken voice, and Jared looks at him with such tenderness that Richard thinks he actually will cry, will burst at the seams with all that undeserved kindness. “Just - “ he begins to beg but Jared stops him with a hand shoved into his pajama bottoms, wrapping firmly around his cock. Richard lets out an undignified sob of relief and collapses forward against Jared’s chest, boneless and supported only by Jared’s arm around his waist. 

All he wanted was quick and dirty, but he should have known that Jared - patient, methodical, so very _thorough _Jared - would take his time, measuring out Richard's pleasure in teaspoons as he takes him apart bit by bit. They stand there, drunkenly swaying like it’s the last dance at prom while Jared shushes into Richard’s sweaty curls and Richard hiccups tiny little moans open-mouthed against Jared’s shoulder. He's out of his mind with need, out of his body even, just floating in a warm safe cocoon as Jared strokes him slow and purposefully. 

_Is that how you like it? _the Jared in his mind whispers and Richard shudders, a full-body thing that rolls through him like thunder and suddenly the lips in his hair and the arm around his waist and the hand on his cock, god that marvellous, miraculous hand, none of it is enough, he wants more, he wants _all of it_ and his thick, dumb tongue can barely manage to force it out on a groan: "Jared."

The hand stroking him falters, squeezes, resumes. Faster, hotter, slicker. "Richard...am I allowed to speak--" Jared's low voice ruffles his hair and Richard's body responds by tipping over the edge, come spurting over Jared's fist just as Richard tries to say again, "Jared--!"

They both stand there for a moment, breathing heavily in the still air of the garage. Jared gingerly removes his hand from Richard's pants and the cooling stickiness on his dick snaps Richard back to harsh reality. 

"I didn't mean to say that," Richard blurts as he straightens back up, putting distance between himself and Jared. "Um, your name. When I..."

"It's perfectly alright, Richard," Jared says softly.

"I just meant. I didn't - I wasn't -" he can't find a way to say that it's one thing to have your employee and friend jerk you off and it's entirely another to say said employee and friend's name at the moment of climax. After all, he doesn't want Jared to get the wrong idea here. 

"Richard, you don't have to explain. I know how these things work."

“Oh. Um...ok. Yeah. Yeah, me too.”

"Is there anything else I can do for you?" Jared asks, holding his soiled hand behind his back. It's remarkable that he can make himself look so small and soft when just a moment ago he was supporting all of Richard's body weight. 

“What? No, I - I mean that was. Enough. Heh.” He goes to scratch at the back of his neck but realizes for the thousandth time that he can’t with the bandages in the way, so he drops his hand again. “Uh, thanks. Again. Really, it’s - I appreciate it. What you - what you’re doing. For me - for the company! Is what I mean. The um, medical issue.”

Jared nods. 

“I’m just gonna. Yeah. I’ll - see you tomorrow, Jared.” Richard winces a little as Jared gives him a tiny little wave and whispers “Goodnight, captain.” He creeps back to his bedroom and shucks off his sticky pajama bottoms, changing into a clean pair of basketball shorts. Richard wonders if Jared’s hard. Wonders what he’ll do by himself in the garage. Would he touch himself? Or maybe he’s completely unaffected by the whole thing. Maybe it was just a fluke last time. Maybe Jared is above such fucking pedestrian things as the pulsing red need that is ruining Richard’s life bit by bit. 

He’s not sure which option makes him feel worse. He shuts his eyes and wills sleep to come quickly.

_I know how these things work_. A flare of something sharp and nasty ripples through him. Does that mean Jared has done this before? Let others use him like this? Not that Richard is using him, exactly, they're on the same page, Jared is Richard's right-hand man, ha ha, and it's not like Richard doesn't care about him at all, he's not like Gavin fucking Belson, not even bothering to learn his _name. _A wave of guilt crashes over him and he vows to do something nice for Jared, something he would really enjoy, something to say, “hey man, I really appreciate all the platonic hand jobs.” He fumbles with his phone and starts to ask Siri to do a search but thinks better of it - Dinesh or Gilfoyle might overhear his voice-to-text. He’ll figure something out on his own. 

As he drifts towards sleep, Richard frowns, Jared’s words repeating over and over in his head. _I know how these things work_. He has no idea how _anything _works, let alone this, but if Jared says it's fine, maybe it is. 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Continued praise and blessings for joycecarolnotes whose excellent beta-ing skills and general Jared Wisdom went a long way to making this chapter resemble anything remotely coherent.

Jared watches Richard go, creeping back through the silent house to his bedroom, and he closes the garage door behind him. He looks down at his sticky hand in the dim light, feeling dazed. Like a tornado just passed overhead - his foundation is left standing, but everything inside him is in disarray. 

He walks over to the small chest of drawers next to his cot and pulls out a fresh handkerchief to wipe off his hand. When he’s done, he can’t resist pressing the cloth to his lips for just a moment, closing his eyes and remembering the feeling of Richard in his arms, the soft brush of his riotous curls against his lips, the woodsy unshowered musk of him. Jared shivers, realizing suddenly that he is hard, that he has _been _hard nearly since Richard pushed him back into this den of secrets and whispered, “Please,” and he immediately feels a rush of guilt at his body’s traitorous indulgence. _Greedy, Donald_, he chastises himself as he places the soiled handkerchief in his hamper. _Selfish_. Once again, he reminds himself that he is grateful and so fortunate to be able to help Richard in this most intimate, most sacred of ways, that his flesh is Richard’s flesh to use, to soothe him and serve him. 

But oh, how difficult it is not to succumb to the fantasy that these assignations were, at least in some small part, about _him_. His hands, his devotion. He could almost imagine that Richard is coming to him out of some buried affection, some longing for Jared specifically, but that idea is laughable, of course. 

He lays down on his cot, hands laced across his breastbone, and stares up into the dim blue glow. His pajama pants feel tight, his skin overwarm, and he closes his eyes and practices square breathing, willing his desire away as he has so many times before. No matter how badly he might want to take himself in hand, to relive the sweet sound of his name on Richard’s tongue. The memory makes a tiny gasp escape his lips and he flushes. He can’t use Richard in this way, as if he were a figure in some cheap, tawdry erotica. He closes his eyes and methodically begins to conjure up every species of bird he can think of. _Fulvous whistling-duck, white-winged scoter, California quail, red-necked grebe. _Just like when he was a kid, the practice calms him and takes him away from his body, away from this cramped cot in this stuffy garage, away from memories he wishes to no longer replay. _Common poorwill, chimney swift, demoiselle crane. _If Richard comes to him again, he will do better, he will be stronger. He will think of the birds. 

***

The next morning, Jared wakes early. After a sunrise salutation and a quick shower, he sets to work making coffee, slicing fruit, and preparing a breakfast burrito for Richard (he needs the protein!) and a tofu scramble for himself. It’s Saturday, so there isn’t much pressing Pied Piper business to attend to, but work on the new internet has been moving slower due to Richard’s injury, so this will be a valuable day of catching up. At this point, Pied Piper is like a delicate orchid - Jared knows how vital it is to bolster and cultivate Richard (and the company by extension) at this crucial juncture. Jared looks forward to another day of gently misting the leaves of Pied Piper with encouragement, and pruning away the withered leaves of inefficiency.

Richard pads sleepily into the kitchen, lured by the smell of coffee. For a split-second, Jared recalls the blissful feeling of Richard in his arms and the heavy, masculine weight of him in his hand and he shoves the thought away hard. Instead he focuses on Richard’s sleep-blurred eyes and the way he still, even after almost a week, keeps trying and failing to grasp the shiny-smooth handle of the coffee pot to pour himself a cup. It makes his heart ache with a familiar, and much safer, fondness.

“Good morning, Richard,” Jared beams at him, “here, let me.” He pours Richard a cup of coffee into his favorite mug and reaches up into the cabinet to get him a compostable straw. “There you go, Captain! A piping hot cup of morning cheer.” 

Richard blinks up at him owlishly, but accepts the cup and takes a sip from the straw. “Thanks,” he mumbles and keeps staring at Jared as if trying to deduce something. Jared tries to put on his most inviting smile - he’s been told on more than one occasion by Gilfoyle that his smiles resemble the mouth of a corpse at a necrophiliac convention - and looks expectantly at Richard for further instruction and guidance. “Did you need something else, Richard? I was just about to plate your breakfast and then get to work on cleaning out your inbox. After all, the punishment of every disordered mind is its own disorder.”

“Um. No, no that’s - that sounds fine, Jared. Did you - I mean, it’s Saturday so I didn’t know if you had any um, plans? Later?” 

“Well, Gloria and I had talked about visiting the Cantor Arts Center because they’ve acquired some new Georgia O’Keeffe pieces that are supposed to be _quite _titillating, but I know we have much to do to keep the good ship Pied Piper running full steam ahead, so--”

“You should go!” Richard blurts, and Jared looks at him a bit bewildered and Richard lowers his voice again. “I just mean. You’ve been working so hard, and um. Taking, taking care of me, like - with the food and the bandages and....everything.” He looks down and Jared could swear the tips of his ears are turning pink. “You and Gloria should go, have a nice time. I’m - I’m giving you the day off. You deserve a day to just do the things you want to do.”

“Oh Richard, that’s so generous of you,” Jared says as tears begin to prick at the corners of his eyes. That Richard would be concerned about _his_ well-being during such a time of mental and physical stress on his poor overtaxed body is simply too much. Jared shakes his head with a rueful smile. “But I _enjoy_, I _cherish _the privilege of cooking for you and tending to your wounds, Richard. And I’ve been so caught up in your recovery that I’ve been growing lax in my filing. No, I think the best course of action is for me to stay here and catch up on some much-needed organizational tasks. Yonic abstract expressionism will just have to wait. Now please, eat up - your burrito is getting cold.” Jared sets his plated burrito and fruit medley down on the kitchen table and pulls out the chair, ushering Richard to sit. 

“Oh, um - I...ok.” Richard seems to hesitate, as if he has more to say, but drops into the chair. Jared continues to look at him, prompting, until Richard gingerly takes a bite of the burrito. He chews for a moment and then his eyes widen slightly. “Oh fuck, that’s really good,” he says, surprised. 

Jared claps his hands together, pleased as punch, and goes back to stirring his tofu scramble. He hums an Ani DiFranco song that’s been stuck in his head for days and smiles to himself at the sounds of Richard being nourished in some small way by his hand.

***

After a satisfying day of filing, archiving, replying, and reaching inbox zero for both himself and Richard, Jared decides to treat himself to a chamomile tea with an extra squirt of honey. It's a bit naughty, he knows, but it _is _Saturday night after all, and he would like to follow through on Richard's direction to relax and kick up his heels just a little. The tea is soothing and the perfect accompaniment to catching up on some knitting blogs he’s been woefully behind on reading.

After getting lost in some very daring new knitting patterns, Jared looks up and realizes the sounds of bickering around him are gone. Dinesh and Gilfoyle are out at a video game launch, which Richard had declined mournfully due to his hands. Jared makes his way down the hall to the bathroom, noting how quiet the house feels, how serene. He checks his watch after he washes his hands and is toying with the idea of calling Gloria to see if she’d like to join him for the next episode of _Planet Earth _they were on (and maybe splitting a pint of almond milk ice cream with her - goodness, he’s feeling wild tonight!) when he hears a thump from Richard’s room and a muffled “fuck!”

He knocks carefully on Richard’s door, which has been prevented from fully closing by a doorstop so that he doesn’t have to attempt twisting the knob. “Richard? Is everything alright?”

“Oh! Jared. Fuck. I mean, no, not - come in.”

As Jared eases the door open and almost shuts it behind him, he sees Richard kneeling on his mattress, gauze and ointment and scissors strewn about, and his bandaged hands oddly frayed and half unraveled. He must see Jared’s shocked expression, because he ducks his head sheepishly and explains, “I was trying to take the bandages off to check on the burns. And uh, I figured they need changing anyway, so it didn’t matter if they got - but I couldn’t, the fucking things won’t come _off_, so I tried to um. Bite the gauze, and that uh. That didn’t work.”

Shock and horror fill Jared at the thought that Richard would resort to something so...so _bestial _when Jared was just in the next room. A pang of guilt cramps his stomach - he should have known, should have been attendant, anticipatory. He wrings his hands and falls to his knees on the mattress in front of Richard with a wounded sort of “Ack!” sound.

“Richard! I was just out there, why would you not just _ask_, I can fix it - does it hurt?” He takes Richard’s bandaged hands in his own gingerly, inspects them and turns them palm up, palm down, looking for signs of distress. 

“No, ah - well I mean, not more than usual, it’s. It’s um. Better, now. Than it was.” He’s looking at Jared steadily, but when Jared meets his eyes, he looks away. 

“Oh, you gave me quite a fright. I don't know why you wouldn't just wait for me to - well. No matter now, I suppose. Just relax, and I’ll take care of everything, alright?” Jared takes the scissors and makes a small cut in the gauze around the wrist of Richard's left hand and begins slowly, carefully undoing the wrapping. 

A hush falls over the both of them, kneeling together on the mattress as if in prayer, as Jared methodically unwinds the gauze over one finger, under the wrist, across the palm, over and under and back again in hypnotic loops. His heart rate is slowing down now as he goes about his work, so grateful to be able to fix the problem, to serve. 

"I just wanted to do something for myself, you know?" Richard murmurs, "It’s like I can’t do anything right and my hands hurt and they fucking itch, I itch all over because I can’t scratch so it’s like a, a psychosomatic thing, this gnawing like, buzz all over me and I just....I just wanted to not feel so helpless all the goddamn time." He gusts out a breath, and Jared feels the warmth across his knuckles. It makes him feel warm all over.

"I understand. You want to feel in control."

Richard nods, teeth digging into his lower lip. Jared feels a rush of affection for him so strong it’s dizzying, and he blinks it away. No time for the soft prison of his feelings right now. Not when Richard needs him. 

He gently removes the old gauze and inspects Richard’s hands. The blisters have gone down, but they are still red and angry-looking. “For what it’s worth, Richard,” he says, “I think you’re handling all of this as well as can be expected. For a creative, brilliant mind like yours to be stifled like this, to be muzzled, it must be agony. But you’ve shown such tremendous tenacity and vision in your efforts to delegate - I’m really very proud of you.”

With a fresh square of gauze, he lightly wipes away the remaining ointment and Richard hisses in pain. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I know it hurts,” Jared soothes and quickly begins to administer a fresh coat of the antibiotic ointment to ease the sting. 

“You’re - you’re really good at this kind of stuff, huh,” Richard says, staring down at where his much smaller hand rests in Jared’s large one. 

“Well, I’ve had lots of practice at playing nursemaid. Not much else to do to pass the time when you’re locked in a survivalist bunker for days on end! But we made our own fun,” he smiles a little wistfully and begins to wind a fresh strip of gauze starting at Richard’s wrist and working his way over the palm and fingers. He makes quick work of it now, and sets to repeating the same process with Richard’s right hand. 

“There we go - right as rain. Can you move your fingers okay?” Richard’s hands are resting carefully over Jared’s, palm down, as Jared tests the gauze at the wrists to make sure it’s not cutting off circulation. 

Richard begins to slowly move his fingers, the lightest brushes over Jared’s palms, an almost tickle that Jared would think was a mistake were it to only happen once. But Richard keeps doing it. He’s looking down, focused on those miniscule, barely-there touches with just the tips of his fingers, the only bit of skin exposed - the only place where his skin is in contact with Jared’s. Up and down Jared's palm, dragging along Jared's fingers, grazing over the pads of his fingertips and then back down to the fluttering pulse at his wrists. “Yeah - yes,” Richard says, so quiet in this quiet house on this quiet night. Jared feels a familiar heat stirring inside him, a warmth that will spit and spark and kindle into a blaze if he’s not careful. _Think of the birds. Black-necked stilt, American oystercatcher, killdeer._

“Do the bandages feel alright?” Jared says. His voice is huskier than he expected. Richard’s still staring at their hands, still grazing his fingertips back and forth, back and forth. 

“Hurts. Itches. I - I won’t be able to sleep.”

Jared knows what’s coming next and he's helpless to stop himself in spite of the ache of it, like an empty tooth socket that his tongue keeps returning to again and again. “Richard, do you need - would you like to use my hands?”

Richard’s eyes snap up to meet his and they’re fever bright, the blue standing out so brilliantly that Jared sucks in a breath, then continues. “You can - whatever you want, Richard.” The confession comes out stark, naked, and Richard’s eyes widen. They stare at each other, snared in the moment and Jared thinks Richard might pull away, but then his fingertips close clumsily around Jared’s wrist and drag his hand to press against his crotch so that Jared can feel the bulge there, hot and growing thicker. Holding Jared's wrist as best he can, Richard grinds against Jared's palm and his eyes flutter shut at the sensation. Jared ignites like a pilot light, a burst of heat rushing through him as he cups the shape of Richard through his sweatpants, squeezing and stroking. A high, reedy moan fills the room. Jared’s not sure who made the sound, but the warmth inside him is blooming and he feels like a pane of glass on the verge of cracking from the heat. 

"I need - fuck, I - lay down,” Richard commands, and Jared scrambles to obey as Richard lays beside him, facing him. “Pants,” he spits out, and Jared tugs down the sweatpants clinging to Richard’s thin hips. He’s not even wearing underwear, and his penis springs free, hard and already damp at the tip. _He’s eager tonight_, Jared thinks, and that feels dangerous. A caged animal released. An unspoken reference to other nights when this, this moment is what Jared must focus on lest he be swept away completely. He notes distantly that he is already erect, straining against his khakis, but the sensation is miles away. 

Hesitantly, Jared’s right hand reaches down to stroke over Richard's flank, along his thigh. Gentling him like a spooked horse. He presses fingertips into Richard's skin, curves around his sharp hipbone and it earns him a rough whimper. Spurred on, Jared reaches into the space between their bodies and traces fingertips up and down the shaft of Richard’s erection. Soft, maddening touches, just the way Richard’s fingertips stroked over his palm. _Selfish, Donald, selfish_, he thinks helplessly, _he wants this over with, wants to be in control_, but Jared can’t find it in himself to make this perfunctory or impersonal the way Richard might want it to be. He can't help making his touches softer, sweeter, more tender than Richard would ever be with his own pleasure.

“Jesus Christ,” Richard gasps, shivering at the slow tease, “Christ, Jared, your _hands_, I can’t -” 

As much as Jared wants to speak, to thank Richard for this gift, he’s not sure he’s allowed, so he presses his lips together to avoid the temptation and watches every tiny expression that flits over Richard’s beautiful face. _Memorize this, Donald, don’t you dare look away_, and he tries, he tries so desperately to take it all in - the light glinting off Richard’s burnt copper curls, the fan of his lashes over his cheeks, the way his bitten, red mouth trembles as Jared takes him fully in hand and strokes him from root to tip. 

Richard’s hips are jerking involuntarily, seeking more friction, and one errant thrust puts him in contact with Jared’s concealed erection. Jared inhales sharply, coming back to his own body like a sudden implosion, and Richard lets out a high, startled whine in the back of his throat. His eyes snap open and he looks at Jared for a moment with such blazing intensity it’s Jared who has to look away. _Now you’ve done it_, he thinks. _Your sluttish, greedy desire has gotten in the way and ruined everything, how can he trust you, how can he expect you to give him what he needs when you’re too busy chasing after your own hedonism, how can you, how can you - _

The sound of Richard’s voice breaks through his tangled thoughts and buzzing nerve endings. He sounds scraped raw when he says, "You could...if you want, you could take it out and. Together. If you. If you want. It’s. It would be more efficient." 

Richard looks up at him through his lashes and oh, Jared knows that look. How cruel to be offered what he wants so much when it’s not real, when he will leave this room and Richard will slip through his fingers like sand, but. The temptation is literally in his hands, right here, Richard is asking him and if Richard wants it, it must be alright for Jared to want it too. _Richard has devoted his life to efficiency, after all_, he thinks.

He stares at Richard wide-eyed, his right hand still stroking the soft steel of him, but his other hand is slowly working the button and zipper of his khakis down, clumsily shoving them down enough to take himself out. He has to move closer, much closer, to line up against Richard but then Jared's hand starts to move again and when he feels the feverish smooth slide of Richard’s flesh against his own he stifles a sob of pleasure. _Oh gosh, _he thinks weakly, _oh no, please, it's too good._

Though tip-to-tip may be the preferred method for a compression algorithm, Jared's hands are big enough to wrap around them both at the same time. They’re both leaking copiously, and the slick slide of their twin arousals together makes Jared feel dizzy, delirious. Richard is moaning steadily now, sounds that Jared has never heard before and couldn't even bear to dream of in his wildest, most private fantasies. Jared doesn’t know where to look, at the magnificent flush on Richard’s face and neck or the surreal sight of his hand wrapped around them both, stroking and coaxing and letting his thumb sweep over the head of Richard’s erection to feel him shudder and whine. He can’t help it, he feels like a dragon hoarding every sound, every sigh, every tremor in Richard’s body to sate the rapacious hunger inside him. He has lived with hunger in its many forms, made friends with it - hunger for food, hunger for touch, hunger for love. In many ways, hunger is one of the few constants in his variable life. But he has never known a hunger like the one he feels now, for the chance to touch Richard and know the look in his eyes when he is at the mercy of Jared’s hands. 

“God Jared, _fuck, _how are you - fuck, fuck, please, _please_\--”

“Anything, Richard,” Jared says without thinking, then gasps at his own folly, he’s not allowed, not _allowed _but Richard’s hips buck forward and the most beautiful cry escapes him. 

“Say it again,” he pants and Jared strokes him faster, strokes them both faster, and he leans in, feeling foolishly reckless as he whispers in Richard’s ear, “Anything you want, Richard, _anything_.” 

Richard stiffens and his head snaps forward, almost clocking Jared in the chin as his body strings tight like a wire and he comes in a hot, steady pulse against Jared. It’s overwhelming, the feeling of him, the _smell _of him, so primal and masculine as he paints his seed over Jared’s skin like he’s claiming territory. 

Like Jared belongs to him. 

Helplessly, Jared bites back a cry as he spills over his own hand, his release mixing with Richard’s. 

Richard keeps his head ducked down, tucked against Jared’s chest, and he’s trembling like a leaf. Jared wants so badly to hold him, to flatten himself out and wrap his body around Richard’s own, a shield and a balm all at once. He does the next best thing he can think of - that Richard asked for, if he asks then Jared isn’t breaking any rules - and wipes his sticky hand on his khakis with a regretful apology to the fabric, then curls his arms around Richard to scratch up and down his back. 

The moan Richard lets out is almost more obscene than any noise he’s made in the last ten minutes, and Jared permits himself a relieved smile. He scratches across Richard’s shoulders, down to the small of his back, up to the nape of his neck, then cards his fingers through those unruly curls and scratches Richard’s scalp. _Don’t be an Icarus, Donald. Stop now before you fly too close to the sun. Become like the birds, remember the birds, _his mind whispers, but with his hands in Richard’s hair and Richard curled up boneless and sated against him, Jared finds that he can’t think of the name of a single one. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song stuck in Jared's head is "Swan Dive" - the live version, NOT the studio version. Jared has very strong opinions about the Ani DiFranco live albums. (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iwgXQLQxIGM)


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Everyone is VERY into everything that's happening here, but there is not an explicit discussion of consent before some sexy time activities occur. Please read with caution if you are sensitive to such matters. 
> 
> Endless thanks go to joycecarolnotes for midwife-ing this chapter into existence and just generally being a supportive and lovely writing buddy.

Things That Are Normal Now, Apparently: Richard Hendricks is the CEO of a potential billion dollar company; he has articles written about him in major magazines; his head of business development gives him mind-blowing orgasms on a daily basis. This is just his life now.

It’s weird how...not very weird it feels. The first time was a lapse in judgement, the second a lapse in willpower. Now it’s just...the way things are. The scope of what Jared does for him is always expanding, like the universe, and this is just one more formerly uncharted territory. It doesn’t feel that strange to Richard as he sneaks to the garage after the guys are asleep and taps on the door, heart pounding with excitement, shifting from foot to foot and already half-hard in his jeans. It feels basically normal to watch Jared during the day, watch his fingers - such slim, talented fingers - dance over his keyboard and feel heat creeping up his spine and a blush staining his cheeks. It feels fine, better than fine, to send a voice-to-text email to Jared asking for him to look over some documents in Richard’s room, and end up as the little spoon with Jared’s lips on the back of his neck and Jared’s cock pressing and rubbing against his ass in his chinos and Jared’s hand wrapped around him, dragging him down into the best, most torturous pleasure he’s ever felt. 

Jared takes it all in stride. Ever polite, ever helpful, he asks every time: “Do you need--?” or “How can I--?” or sometimes just, “My hands?” He smiles that smile, that mixed-up expression of sadness and worship, and he pulls Richard close and gives and gives and gives. 

And Richard isn’t heartless, ok? He’s not going to just leave Jared high and dry, like he’s some kind of kept sex puppet or something. When he originally asked Jared to pull his dick out, that was about _being a good friend_. And sure, two dicks out in his room at the same time is, is, is a little _unprecedented_, but what else was he supposed to do? Just let Jared slink back to the garage and rub one out like some fucking like, outlaw pervert? No. No, Richard was just being _fair_. _And efficient_, the boner goblin pipes up, which thank you, boner goblin, yes, you’re finally being helpful, and it WAS. Efficient, that is. And now, it’s not like he can go back to doing things the _inefficient way_. That would be crazy. 

Also. Not that it matters, but. Richard kind of...likes it. Not just the way it feels (but christ, it feels fucking amazing). No, Richard likes knowing that Jared likes it. That Jared likes touching him. There’s something satisfying about how hard Jared gets. Because it’s tangible, incontrovertible proof, Richard’s seen it, he’s - oh god - he’s felt it like a brand on his skin. Jared’s body can’t lie about how much he enjoys what they’ve been doing - it’s like Richard’s very _existence _is enough to get him hard and that’s. Well it’s just not something that Richard has ever experienced so the, the, the _novelty_ of it hasn’t worn off yet, that’s all. And it’s just so easy to get Jared going, to watch the flush spread across his pale neck and cheeks until he looks like he’s burning up from the inside out, a fire seeking to consume. Richard knew that Jared was uh, spirited at times, but seeing what it does to him just to get a chance to touch Richard is a little intoxicating. Jared holds it back, tries to keep it in check, but Richard can _see _it; even though Richard’s never even touched him, Jared still shakes and whimpers and comes apart. Richard doesn’t even have to _do _anything, there’s no way he can mess it up. 

If he _could _touch, he might do something wrong. Jared might not like it. Not that he even wants to touch anything, he never said that! So the way things are now is good. Fine. Great. 

***

“Alright, Richard," the doctor says, looking Richard up and down like he's already exhausted with this conversation. "I’ve got good news and I’ve got bad news. The good news is that your hands are healing up nicely! I don’t know what you’ve been doing, but these are some of the fastest healing burns I’ve ever seen.”

Richard fidgets and starts to stammer, "Wh-what? I mean, yeah just. Changing the bandages, eating better I guess. Sleeping uh, more," but the doctor cuts him off with a wave of his hand. "Yeah, yeah, that's great that you ate a vegetable. Whatever it is, keep doing it and you should be back to normal - well, not normal, this is still YOU we're talking about - in another week!"

"A week?" Richard parrots back dumbly. "But...but you said it would take three weeks at least! Nerve damage and skin grafts and f-fingers falling off..." There’s a sick churning in his stomach and his heart is pounding in his ears. This IS good news, right? Then why does it feel like he's on the verge of panic? That's so much less time than he - obviously the bandages had to come off eventually, he knew that. But a week? That's just...so soon. “You’re sure?”

“Of course I’m sure,” the doctor replies, annoyed. “Weren't you just on my case about how you couldn't type and you had a company to run and blah blah blah? This is what I'm talking about, Richard. I perform a medical miracle and you're being a total downer."

Richard twists his lips into a frown - the doctor didn’t really _do _anything to help him heal faster after all - then his eyes snap up to meet the doctor’s again. “Wait, what’s the bad news?” 

“Well it _was _that my daughter is now thinking about the Peace Corps instead of grad school, but your reaction to the good news makes me think there’s something else. Most people would be _happy _that the bandages were coming off.” He eyes Richard warily, then leans in and asks, “You don’t have some kind of weird mummy fetish, do you?”

“What? God, no, that’s - is that even - no. This is good - great - news. Thanks, I - um, thank you,” Richard splutters and hops off the table, eager to get out of this office and back to somewhere quiet and safe and away from the dizzy nausea threatening to overtake him. 

***

Richard barely says two words to his Lyft driver, lost in his own thoughts on the ride back to the hostel. One week. It seems impossible to imagine going back to the way his life was before he burnt his hands. _Before you had Jared_, an oily whisper snakes through him and he shudders, half-arousal, half-revulsion at himself. _I don't HAVE him_, he reminds himself. _They’re just orgasms. Nothing to get so worked up over. _He tries to ignore the sick, hollow feeling in his stomach. So what if they could no longer do...the things they've been doing. They were friends before, weren't they? And Jared would probably be relieved, overjoyed to hear of Richard's recovery. Holding his hands to his chest and beaming, "It's a Pied Piper miracle!" Happy to no longer be constantly pawed at, fucking _accosted _by Richard's clutching, greedy needs. 

He closes his eyes, head thunking against the headrest in the backseat of the Prius. Before he knows it, he’s back at the house, jogging up the driveway, each slap of his shoes on the pavement reverberating through his skull, _one week one week one week. _Striding through the house with a purpose, he ignores Dinesh’s, “Hey Richard--” and beelines straight to the garage. He has to tell Jared right now, that’s the only thing that makes sense, Jared will know how to make sense of this tangled up mess inside him. The door is slightly ajar so he pushes it open and barges in, shutting it hard with his elbow. 

“Richard!” squawks Jared, clutching one of his crisp dress shirts up against his chest as if he were a lady just out of the shower trying to preserve her modesty. “I was just hanging - Richard, what’s wrong? Did your doctor’s appointment go poorly?”

Richard blinks at him and makes a strangled, noncommittal sound, taking three quick steps toward Jared then stopping in his tracks. "He's a fucking quack!" Richard blurts out, throwing his hands up in the air and sitting down heavily in the little armchair next to Jared’s cot. He catches Jared’s alarmed look and knows he must look crazy - flushed and sweaty, hair standing up in poofy clumps, his bandaged hands dangling uselessly out of the arms of his hoodie. 

“He said - he said I - “ Richard chokes, short of breath and worked up beyond his ability to process, and Jared is in front of him in a second, folding himself down to kneeling on the concrete floor to meet Richard at eye level. 

“Oh no, I was afraid of this - did he say it’s going to take more time? Will you have to wear the bandages longer than we thought?” 

Richard looks up, startled, and sees the wrinkle of care and concern between Jared’s upturned eyebrows. “Yeah,” he says, the word coming out in a croak that almost gets stuck in his throat. “Yeah, they can’t come off yet.” The lie sounds thick and dumb on his tongue but Jared nods sagely, as if he has been bracing for this unpleasant eventuality. _Why did I lie that was stupid so stupid take it back, _his mind screams at him while his heart continues to thud in his chest. _One-week. One-week. One-week. _

“Jared, I--” Richard starts in a panic, doesn’t know where the sentence is going but knows he should double back, tell the truth, but Jared cuts him off by grabbing his shoulders, letting his thumbs trace soothing lines along Richard’s collarbones. The touch makes Richard suck in a harsh breath and the words dry up in his mouth. 

“I know this isn’t ideal Richard, but you’ll be back to coding soon. We’ll get through this, we will, Richard, and one day this will just be one of the colorful anecdotes you’ll be able to tell Diane Sawyer when she does her profile on your autobiography.” Jared keeps rubbing his thumbs over Richard’s tense trapezius muscles and Richard is shaking, breathing shallow, vibrating like he’s going to shatter apart. Overheated and overwhelmed, he doesn’t know how to process, how to do any goddamned thing, and he leans forward to bury his face in the crook of Jared’s neck. He wants to hide, wants to burrow himself into Jared’s unearned kindness, wants to ask, doesn’t know how. 

To his credit, Jared doesn’t flinch or react to this sudden onslaught of a panicked Richard other than to gently pull his hands out from between them to take Richard fully into an embrace. His fingers begin scratching gently at the nape of Richard’s neck and through his hair and Richard moans hot and open-mouthed against the skin of Jared’s neck. “It’s alright, shh, it’ll be alright,” Jared murmurs, soothing, but Richard feels him shiver. Blunt nails are raking across Richard’s scalp in a way that makes Richard’s entire body break into goosebumps. His lips are brushing against the slope of Jared's neck, not kissing but not NOT kissing and the comfort and warmth emanating from Jared is making his heart beat rapidly for an altogether different reason. This is what he can't say no to. Orgasms are great but THIS is something else entirely and that scares the shit out of him but he loops his arms around Jared’s waist, unwilling to give it up yet. Not yet. 

_I’ve got a week_, he thinks frantically, and noses behind Jared’s ear to inhale the crisp autumn leaves smell of him. Just being held like this is so overwhelmingly good and safe and protected and is that so wrong? Is it so awful to seek comfort from someone when the entire goddamn world feels like it's out to get him? 

_So you lied a little to get it, see how freely Jared gives it up anyway? _that low, slippery voice whispers in his ear and Richard shudders. He’s getting hard, of course he is, he’s some kind of fucked up Pavlovian experiment and his brain equates panic and Jared’s hands with the most opportune time for his libido to drag him around like a dog by a chain. And Jared’s hands, those broad, incredible, enormous hands have slid down Richard’s sides, down over Richard’s hipbones, down along Richard’s thighs. Thin, clever fingers are dragging up and down over the worn cotton of his pants, down and back up, gentling him while also making soothing humming noises and Richard can’t help the panting little breaths he’s puffing out against the side of Jared’s neck. 

The pad of Jared’s thumb brushes over the growing bulge in Richard’s khakis and Richard’s breath stutters, his teeth grazing across Jared’s pulse point. Jared’s breath stutters too and Richard feels a dark surge of pride at the reaction, picturing them suddenly as a perpetual motion machine of lust. 

Jared pulls back a little, but keeps running his hands up and down over Richard as if the motion is the only thing keeping him from bolting. Shakily, Richard looks up to meet Jared’s eyes and his brain short circuits at what he sees - Jared’s pupils are blown, there’s a flush high on his cheekbones, and he looks so - so _hungry_. 

It suddenly occurs to Richard that Jared is kneeling. 

In front of him. 

A surge of desire pulses through him so strong it’s almost painful and that voice pipes up again, eager and sneering. _See how easily he gets on his knees for you? _the boner goblin smirks. _You don’t even have to ask, that’s how much he wants this, look at him he’s fucking _gagging _for it, isn’t he? Wouldn’t that sweet mouth feel so much better than another handjob? He’s probably good at it. He looks like he’d be so good at it, and it’s not like you haven’t thought about it before. If you ask, he’ll do it, he’ll take it, you want him to take it, don’t you, take that dick down his throat like a fucking pro--_

Richard’s hands weakly spasm through the bandages, contracting where they’re holding on to Jared’s waist, and he can’t ask for this, he can’t, he can’t, but his hips jerk up without his permission. Jared ducks his head as if in contrition, bending forward in that way he does like his whole body is an apology, but instead of saying anything he puts his mouth against the hard line of Richard’s cock, dragging his lips over it and learning its shape with his mouth. 

It’s like Richard's been punched in the solar plexus, all of his shame and desire and terror and need converging into one spot in the center of his chest. He’s never felt so unbearably turned on and he feels dizzy, lightheaded as Jared’s lips linger over his clothed cockhead. 

“Jarrrred...” Richard groans, the susurration of sound pulled out of him at the shock of feeling, and it’s like hearing his name on Richard’s tongue flips a switch. Suddenly, Jared’s fingers are digging into the waistband of Richard’s pants, pulling the elastic of the khakis and his boxers down far enough to allow his cock to spring free, and then he curves down in that apologetic way of his, acquiescent, trying not to take up too much space and sucks the head of Richard’s dick into his mouth.

_Oh Jesus fucking Christ_, the boner goblin cries. “Oh Jesus fucking Christ,” Richard gasps, sucking in a huge lungful of the stale garage air, and looking down to watch the soft bob of Jared’s head in his lap. It’s been so long since anyone has done this for him, Richard almost forgot how painfully good it feels, but Jared seems determined to make him remember. Every other time they’ve done this (_not like this never like this oh god_) Jared has gone slowly, methodically, making Richard ache with the measured-out pleasure Jared wrings from him with his hands. But this is something entirely new, desperate and savage. The heat and pressure and - god - the slick slide of Jared's lips in a perfect O as he takes Richard all the way down, it's like he wants to devour Richard completely. Richard wants to let him.

Low, obscene sounds are being punched out of Jared as he sucks desperately, hungrily and Richard curses the fact that his hands are useless lumps wrapped in bandages because he wants nothing more than to run his hands through that sleek black hair and fuck it up, tangle it in his fingers and pull and guide and make Jared feel as unmoored as he feels. Suddenly, Jared pulls off, using his right hand to pump Richard's spit-slick cock as he rests his forehead on Richard's thigh for a moment breathlessly. 

When he speaks, the words sound like they're scraping raw against his throat. "Richard, Richard please...may I--" 

"Yes," Richard gasps, because whatever Jared wants, he can have, he can have _everything_, whatever means his mouth stops talking and comes back to wrap around his cock again. No sooner has he said it and that warm, perfect mouth is back, Jared's lips stretching around the head and his eyes flicking up to meet Richard's. A spike of arousal shoots through him at the visual. The boner goblin seems to have shut up or maybe passed out from overstimulation.

Jared’s cheeks are hollowing around him, there’s spit and precome leaking out the corners of his wet, red mouth, and his hand is working over Richard’s cock in tandem with each bob of his head. Richard’s close already, embarrassingly so, and then he shifts forward to get more leverage when he feels Jared’s left arm bump into his knee in a steady rhythm. It takes a moment for the fog of his impending orgasm to clear enough that he realizes--

“Jared are you -" he sucks in a heaving, wracking breath, and groans, "oh fuck, oh _fuck_ are you touching yourself?” 

“Mmm,” Jared moans plaintively, eyes squeezing shut as he pushes to take Richard in even deeper, the motion of his arm not stopping. Speeding up. He's never - not while they were, not unless Richard told him to, not ever asking for even a consideration of his own pleasure, not even as an afterthought, and now he's - Jared, he's - Richard can _hear it _now, the soft_ shhk shhk shhk _sound of his hand as he strokes himself while sucking Richard's cock and that knowledge whites out everything else in his brain. 

He barely has the presence of mind to tap on Jared's shoulder with a frantic, "'m gonna, fuck, Jared I'm gonna," before he's doubled over with the force of his orgasm. Jared moans sloppily around him, and Richard can feel the squeeze as he swallows everything, warm puffs of breath through his nose tickling Richard's pubic hair. He's curled over Jared, panting, hands braced on his shoulders. He can feel the tension in Jared's muscles; the movement in his arm has stopped, his whole body coiled tight like a spring. 

Pulling back a little to speak low in Jared's ear, Richard asks breathlessly, "Did you...did you come?"

Jared's mouth is still around his cock, suckling and nuzzling a little as if he doesn't want to let go. He gives a minute shake of his head, and Richard's dick twitches at the movement. 

"Do you want to?"

A tiny nod. Richard shivers and rests his bandaged hands on the back of Jared's head, the soft hairs at the nape of his neck tickling Richard's fingertips. Crowds a little closer and inhales sharply as Jared's tongue massages his sensitive, softening cock. 

"Do it, then," Richard goads, "you can - can stay right here, and if you want it, do it." 

Jared hesitates for a moment, unsure. Richard adds just the tiniest amount of pressure with his fingers while pushing his hips up just a fraction, and Jared lets out a sinful humming noise as he slurps around Richard, finally resuming stroking himself.

"Yeah," Richard breathes, "yeah that's good, that's - you want this so much, don't you, Jared? Is this what you wanted? Wanted to come with my dick in your mouth? Do it, then, fucking _do it,_" He's babbling now, unable to stop himself, hypnotized by the rhythm and the mental image of Jared's huge hand throttling his cock because he's so desperately turned on - but he won't come unless Richard lets him. The power of it, _Jesus_ \- his dick pulses feebly in Jared's mouth at the thought, and Jared whines around him.

With a sharp inhale, Jared suddenly tightens around him, his cry muffled with his mouth stuffed full, and Richard's fingers convulse reflexively, petting and stroking Jared's soft hair with his fingertips. 

They stay like that for days or maybe a few seconds. Once he's gathered his composure again, Jared pulls off and Richard winces as the cool air hits his soft cock. He drops his hands, suddenly feeling foolish and too exposed with his fingertips in Jared's hair. He misses the warmth already. 

Jared tucks Richard back into his pants for him and then takes out a handkerchief to wipe his own hand and face with fastidious care. The quiet in the garage feels suddenly thick and Richard isn't sure what to say or where to look.

"Thank you, Richard," Jared says softly. 

"Oh uh. Yeah, that's, I mean." He clears his throat. "Thank you. Too." 

Carefully unfolding himself from his kneeling position, Jared stands up and moves back to where his laundry is piled on his cot. He looks a little lost and dazed. Richard wants to say something comforting or helpful but his mouth seems to be cemented shut. When Jared turns to him, Richard blinks and gives a weird little curlicue salute before heading towards the door, his heart pounding. 

_You'll tell him later. It's barely a lie, it's not like he's never protected YOU from a lie, remember the fake users? We've got a week, that's plenty of time. And he, he enjoys this too - look at what he just did. What you _wanted_ him to do. There's fucking proof, there's _evidence,_ right there on the floor. He likes this, he does, you've seen it. _

_And if he likes it too, it's ok. If he likes it too, that's proof that you're still a good person. _


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter, and this fic entirely, would not exist without the kind and brilliant joycecarolnotes. Thank you endlessly for your cheerleading, brainstorming, and general Jared Wisdom :)

Richard groans and flops over on his mattress. The fitted sheet has come untucked from one corner and it’s curling up in a triangle around his left foot and if he weren’t such a fucking useless piece of shit with fucking useless piece of shit hands, he would have re-tucked it by now. Or not, who is he kidding. 

_But your hands AREN’T useless pieces of shit, _he thinks, pressed face down into his pillow. _They’re miracle hands, hands that heal quicker than any hands have ever healed like you’re a fucking Chosen One but without the destiny. But you sure as shit have a tragic downfall don’t you, that’s your entire fucking PROBLEM, because you lied about it to Jared. You know, Jared, the tall nice guy with the big ears who keeps sucking your dick and saying “thank you” like you’re special, like he’s blessed, like he’s receiving goddamn communion. And now you’re going to hell because you just compared gay blow jobs to communion wafers and Aunt Barbara would keel the fuck over if she knew, she wouldn’t even go to Melissa’s wedding because it wasn’t in a church and and and..._

Little gray spots start to float across his vision and he turns his head to the side like a swimmer to breathe and try to get the thoughts circling in his head like vultures to dissipate. It’s been six days since his doctor’s appointment. He still hasn’t been able to find a way to tell Jared the truth - that his hands are fine, that the bandages are coming off, that things can go back to normal. Well. As normal as they were before. 

It’s just never a good _time_. Things have been picking up with the new internet; Jared was even able to get them a meeting with some early investors who were curious about the idea. They’d spent most of the week prepping their presentation, and even Dinesh and Gilfoyle had stopped antagonizing each other for long enough to contribute. So obviously Richard couldn’t say anything about his hands then, because he didn’t want to distract them from landing this precarious deal! And when he and Jared were alone, well. That was. It’s not like he hadn’t _tried_. Three days ago, all he did was grab at Jared’s wrist to try to still him, to try to make him see that Richard had something to say. His bandaged fingers grazed over the thin skin, it could hardly be called friction, but Jared trained that melted ice-blue gaze on him and looked, _really_ looked at him. _How does he do that? _Richard thought, because it was like Jared was peering inside him, rummaging around and messing up his insides with just those huge blue eyes, and he should hate the feeling but he doesn't. It's like a magnet pulled Jared toward him, like Richard didn’t even have to do anything but want and Jared knew it. He came hard and messy in Jared’s hand just a few minutes later and croaked out, “Let - let me see, wanna see,” while Jared stroked himself off, face burning. Richard watched, rapt, and murmured snatches of praise. 

So. It's not like he didn't _try. _

After a stern pep talk with himself in the bathroom mirror, Richard tried the direct approach. More than once. But Jared would look at him, so patient, so ready to accept whatever Richard would deign to give him and Richard would falter. _A little bit longer_, he'd tell himself, feeling fiercely protective. Shielding Jared from his own stupid betrayal. _Just a little bit longer._

A couple times he managed to get out, “Jared. Jared, I need...” but Jared always took it upon himself to kneel at Richard’s feet at that exact moment, folding himself so neatly on the concrete floor of the garage or into the cramped space under Richard’s loft bed and saying in this quiet breathy voice that should be fucking _illegal_, “Yes, Richard? Would you like to use my mouth?” 

And ok so like Richard isn’t a _saint_, ok? He doesn’t have the willpower of Ghandi or or or fucking _Jesus _but he’s pretty sure Jesus never had that soft, breathy voice and even softer lips brushing hot against the head of his cock. Or maybe he did in that terrible cheap paperback of _The Da Vinci Code _Richard read in high school, but that doesn’t matter, what matters is that he’s tried to tell Jared and Jared won’t _let him _because he is so ready to kneel, to give and to receive, and Richard can hardly bear the thought of taking that away from him. 

_Oh, it’s about HIM now? _an oozing, smug voice pipes up and Richard struggles to grab his pillow with his clumsy bandaged fingers and shove his head underneath it to drown out the boner goblin. _I think it’s about YOU. About you and your “thing” that just won’t go away, not in middle school, not in high school, not at Stanford, or Hooli, or here. About how you watched Jared long before your dick was in his mouth, about all those dark little fantasies you hate yourself for, about how much you like a sharp jawline and broad shoulders and a thick, throbbing co--_

“Shut _up_,” Richard growls into the pillow and flings it across the room. He stares at the _Cruising _poster on his wall. Feels the weight of the beat up copy of _Tales of the City _on his desk. They stare back, accusatory. 

"This is bullshit," he says to his empty room, a headache beginning to press behind his eyes. "I'm not--" 

But he can't quite finish the sentence. 

***

Jared is just finishing up an article about the changing migratory patterns of the ruby-throated hummingbird and contemplating getting ready for bed when he hears the subtle _tap tap tap _on the garage door that indicates Richard's presence. 

Trying to tamp down the warm flush of excitement that floods through him at the sound, Jared gets up from his little armchair and opens the door. “Richard,” he says, trying to play it cool but his smile is wide and he knows he sounds eager as he steps aside so Richard can enter the dim server room. He tries not to notice the ragged, bitten look of Richard’s lips or the way his soft curls form a halo more riotous than usual or his furrowed brow. Tries not to reach his hands out to soothe him. Tries not to allow himself the indulgence of drawing Richard close. _Don’t be covetous, Donald. Don’t be selfish._

“I was just finishing up some reading and thinking of turning in. Would you like me to make us some tea?” Jared always offers Richard tea, even though Richard prefers his radioactive energy drinks and bitterly strong coffee - it’s a vain hope, but Jared takes every opportunity to encourage more antioxidant consumption. 

“Oh, um I didn’t mean to - I mean if you were gonna go to sleep, I could. Like...” Richard trails off, clearly not wanting to leave and Jared feels a warm glow radiating outward from his chest. 

“Not at all, Richard, please. You know you’re always welcome here.” He gestures for Richard to take the armchair and is surprised when Richard stops in his tracks and shuffles his feet, seemingly struck shy. 

“If you want, I, yeah I’d like some tea. Thanks.” His voice is uncharacteristically soft, almost tentative, and Jared blinks at him in pleased surprise before nodding, “Of course,” and taking two mugs from on top of his small dresser before turning on his electric kettle. It’s a special occasion when Richard allows Jared to make tea for him, and the warmth in his chest spreads to encompass his whole body. Perhaps the highlighted HuffPo articles he’s been sending Richard about the benefits of green tea on concentration are finally paying off! 

The air feels quiet and still as Jared goes about the business of making tea. There’s a mini fridge in the corner where Gilfoyle stores extra beers for when he’s working on Anton, and from it Jared pulls out the small carton of almond milk neatly marked “Jared Dunn :-)”. He feels oddly conscious of his body taking up space, of Richard’s eyes on him, and it’s a struggle not to bask in the attention like a sunflower unfurling to track the arc of the sun across the sky. Normally the ritual nature of making tea grounds him, and to make tea _for Richard _is a privilege he so rarely gets to enjoy that it feels almost criminally indulgent. But there’s a tension in the air, something thick and sultry, and it taps into that reckless part of Jared that wants to offer himself up alongside the tea, anything to make Richard feel cared for and cherished the way he deserves. The names of birds flit across his mind as a reflex - _canvasback, sharp-tailed grouse, black swift _\- but he bats them away. 

By now he’s used to Richard being in his bedroom (_the room where you sleep, Donald, don’t get presumptuous_) but Richard’s silence and general off-kilter air has the hair on the back of Jared’s neck tingling. He takes a few breaths as he arranges the tea bags, the milk, a small spoon and saucer, and a compostable straw for Richard (in two three four, hold two three four, out two three four, rest two three four) then turns to lean casually against the dresser and attempts to break the silence. 

“How are you feeling about the upcoming meeting with Khosia?”

Richard is staring at his bandaged hands palm up and appears not to have heard Jared. “I don’t even really like tea that much, you know?” 

Jared moves to sit on his cot - the kettle has a couple minutes still to go, and he recognizes Richard’s tone of voice with a thump in his chest. Contemplative. Quiet. This is a secret. They will have a secret. He leans forward, eager, then straightens up in correction. _Sadistic, the way you’re rejoicing at his pain. His hands must be aching terribly and this whole ordeal, not being able to code and express his brilliance, forced to grovel for your help - it must be torturous. Reign yourself in, Donald. _But, oh, the promise of Richard exposing yet another secret part of himself to Jared in the quiet stillness of this garage is intoxicating.

Richard continues, still examining his bandaged hands, “My mom used to make tea for me when I was scared. One time, Big Head and I convinced my dad to let us rent _The Ring _when we were in high school. I hadn’t even really seen many horror movies but it seemed really important at the time, like dumb high school stuff you know? And my mom would never let me watch stuff like that.” He mimics a higher-pitched, faintly Southern accent: “‘That garbage will rot your brain right outta your head, Richie,’ she’d say. But you know. Dads.”

Jared shrugs - he doesn’t. Richard flushes a little, seemingly embarrassed, but presses on, “Or - I mean. MY dad. I don’t know, anyway, he - he rented it from Blockbuster for us and we stayed up way too late watching it and when that fucking girl came out of the tv I thought I was going to die. Like actually have a heart attack and my face would get all twisted up like the girl in the closet.” Jared’s never seen the movie, but he can picture high school Richard so clearly, his eyes darting and wide, his thin face more open, more unguarded as he watched a scary movie huddled up on the couch in the blue glow of the tv screen. 

“Big Head wasn’t fazed by it at all cause, I mean, it’s Big Head, but I was fucking petrified. My mom came downstairs, probably because we were making too much noise once the movie was almost over, and I thought I was going to get in so much trouble. But instead she just--” he pauses, and Jared can see him remembering, wishes he could somehow reach back into that memory and comfort the scared teenager Richard once was. “She just took one look at me and dragged me to the kitchen. Sat me down and - and she made me some chamomile tea. She wasn’t even that mad cause she, you know, could tell that I was. That it fucked me up. She always like...knew stuff, you know?” Richard looks up for the first time and meets Jared’s eyes. 

Helplessly, Jared pinks a little at the intensity of Richard’s penetrating gaze. _He’s so handsome_, he thinks and wishes he could crawl away from the guilt of cherishing this moment and Richard’s confidence. 

“It must be so lovely, to be known by someone that way,” he says softly. Richard licks his thin, bitten lips and nods once. He doesn’t look away. 

Blinking, Jared realizes that the thump and rattle of the kettle has stopped, blanketing them in quiet again and he gets up to steep the tea bags. It gives him an excuse to collect himself. He feels dizzy and overpowered by the steady thrum of his desire for Richard in this moment. Every day since his injury it feels like Richard is weaving the threads of their connection tighter: the easy way he bares himself, spilling secrets like this; the fervent glint in his eye when he makes demands of Jared and his body; the weight of his eyes on Jared when he thinks no one is looking. _Be grateful for this, don’t you dare take for granted that he trusts you. He’s asked you for help in his time of need. Your captain calls upon you to help him weather this stormy sea. The waves have no time for your mooning affections!_

As he hands Richard his cup of tea, their fingertips brush. To Jared, it feels like a flock of birds taking flight inside him, but there are so many he doesn’t know their names.

\---

Richard is grateful for the chance to let Jared do something he knows Jared enjoys, making the tea, but it only lessens the guilt by about 5%. 4.8%, or no, 4.75%. He came here to tell the truth and try to - to - he doesn't know, it's like he's fumbling around in the dark and he keeps bumping into the edges of things that are important, that are _paramount_, but he can't see how it all fits together yet. All he knows is that this, now, here, with Jared, is important and he doesn't want to fuck it up, but when has that ever stopped him before? Fuck.

Richard sips his tea to try to give his mouth something to do besides talk a lot of bullshit about scary movies and his _mom_, Jesus how much of an asshole can he _be_ when he’s trying to be a nice person and do the right thing and Jared doesn’t even have a mom to make him tea or stroke his hair - that glossy, perfectly neat, impossibly soft hair. 

_Focus_. 

Right. Jared asked him a question originally, before he got sidetracked by Jared’s uncanny ability to offer him exactly what he needs at the moment he needs it and the sudden and overwhelming sense memory of the scent of chamomile tea and the feeling of warmth and safety while sitting in the soft glow of his parents’ kitchen, lit only by the light on the oven hood. 

“I uh. What I was gonna say, before, was that I think we’re in good shape for the pitch, you know, um - Dinesh and Gilfoyle have been really picking up the slack from my uh--” he vaguely gestures with one bandaged hand and almost knocks his tea cup out of his other hand but manages to only slop a tiny bit on the floor. “Shit, sorry,” he rushes on, trying to soak up the spill with the side of his shoe but only succeeding in spreading the liquid around. 

“But I’m um, I’m still. Nervous. Heh, I guess that much is obvious.” He smiles waveringly, and Jared smiles back beatifically. “It’s, like, this is fucking it - our first big test of this thing that’s just been living in my brain and. I guess I’m just...scared."

"Oh, Richard," Jared leans in a little closer and Richard can see the two of them in his mind's eye, like two boy scouts huddling around a camp fire, warding off the chill of the night. "I have every confidence in the new internet, and in you! You've been working so hard...I think we’re on the precipice of something wondrous, I really do. This is about to be the start of a whole new chapter in the illustrious tale of Pied Piper and her intrepid captain."

“Thanks, Jared,” Richard says sheepishly, but his mouth is twisted into a pleased smile he can’t quite help. Jared’s hands are clasped together, almost as if prayer, in the small space between where they’re both leaning in. Drawn together and inseparable as two quarks, combined to form something new. _He must be charm, so I guess that makes me strange, _Richard thinks, and his smile grows softer, more relaxed. He’s pleased to see Jared smiling back. He drinks his tea with his little straw, and feels warmth flood his chest and belly. It just feels so goddamn _nice_ to be here and drink tea and hear Jared reassure him in this little space they’ve created. Richard can’t remember feeling this calm in a long time. 

“Richard?” Jared asks, peeking up shyly through his lashes. “Would you like to use my hands?”

The boner goblin stirs from where it was taking a nap, and Richard startles as though cold water has been poured over him. He forgot what had brought him here in the first place. _What DID you come here for? _the boner goblin whispers, and Richard jerks upright in his chair. “What? N-no, that’s ok I’m not - I mean I don’t need - I’m fine.” He’s blinking rapidly, his brain rebooting, and he catches the look on Jared’s face but can’t compute it. Is that...disappointment?

The look is gone in an instant, shuttered away as Jared clears his throat. “Of course,” he says, acquiescent, minimizing himself, nearly shrinking before Richard’s eyes. “Let me just take that for you,” he says and plucks Richard’s empty tea cup from his hands. Richard feels an irrational stab of petulance, wants to grab hold of Jared’s hand, demand that he come back from wherever he’s gone to, stay just a little longer in this safe place that they’ve built together. Instead, his hands remain motionless, useless - they don’t feel anything at all.

\---

_Why did you have to offer? Things were perfect. Richard asked you to make him tea, he ASKED you! _This had been one of Jared’s most indulgent, most intimate fantasies for so long - and now it’s a dream that has turned into a nightmare. 

_Spending this time together - Richard confiding in you, seeking some small comfort through his harrowing ordeal - how many nights have you thought about this, dreamed about having this very moment? You never _believed_ you could share these intimacies with such a brilliant lodestar, and now they’re not enough for you? Always the Tantalus, Donald, reaching for more than you could ever deserve. Richard’s time and his trust - even temporary as it was always going to be - how could you have asked for more than that? _Jared swallows down his humiliation, willing his hands not to shake. He grips the tea cup too hard, feels his knuckles go white. Wishes it would shatter, would disintegrate into a million tiny pieces and carry him away with it like motes of dust on the wind. 

He keeps his back turned to Richard, ostensibly cleaning up the tea detritus, but really trying to control the rabbiting of his heart, the shrill whistle of his breath. He hears a rustling behind him and knows Richard is getting up from the armchair. 

“Jared? Are you - I mean, is everything ok?”

The thought of Richard offering _him _comfort after such a breach of trust makes Jared feel nauseated. He doesn’t turn around, but lifts his chin in an effort to sound airy when he says, “Of course! I am getting quite tired though, so I think I will turn in, if that’s alright with you, Richard.” 

“Oh.” There’s a soft shuffle, and Jared can picture Richard hesitating, not quite daring to take a step forward in his sneakers. “Um. Yeah, yeah of course. I’ll just - “ he trails off, and for a moment, Jared wants to turn, wants to apologize, wants to beg Richard’s forgiveness - if they could only go back to a few moments ago before he ruined everything. Jared always knew their physical relationship was a means to an end, but he never wanted it to end like this. When Jared doesn’t say any of that, Richard seems more resolved. “Right. Sorry, I’ll just....yeah.” 

Jared listens to his receding footfalls and the click of the garage door shutting. His shoulders slump and he leaves the mugs where they are on the dresser without wiping them out completely; mug stains are the least he deserves as penance for his careless treatment of his beloved Captain. He lays down on his cot and brings his knees up to his chest, making himself into as small a ball as he can manage. 

_You knew this was temporary, you knew, and yet you still let yourself get attached like some mewling, needy pup. This was never about you, Donald. You lost sight of that and look where it got you._

***

Once Richard left the garage, he kept reliving the look on Jared’s face over and over again. The way his ice-blue eyes, his entire _Jaredness _seemed to dim. _He doesn’t understand. If he knew what a piece of shit I am, he wouldn’t want to touch me ever again. I’m doing him a - a fucking favor. The bandages come off tomorrow and he’ll see that he doesn’t want anything to do with a liar and a fuckup who has been using him for weeks instead of actually dealing with his own bullshit. _

It replays behind his eyes every time he closes them. That shy, secret smile that only Richard gets to see, turned down at the corners, and those eyes, so hopeful, peering up at him. _“Would you like to use my hands?”_

Needless to say, Richard doesn’t get much sleep. He wakes up to Dinesh and Gilfoyle arguing outside the bathroom about who had spent the most time jerking off that morning. 

They arrive at Khosia 15 minutes early, just him and Dinesh and Gilfoyle because Khosia wanted to go through the engineering theory. Jared was going to come, but Richard received an email at 6 am that said Jared was "otherwise indisposed with an HR seminar." He wondered if Jared was avoiding him after last night, and the thought makes his mouth taste like pennies and his stomach clench. Richard immediately engages in his normal pre-meeting routine of finding the most private bathroom (helpfully marked in his portfolio of notes by Jared in advance) and puking, then washing up. He stares at himself in the mirror, and repeats the mantra Jared taught him to say - it still feels lame and stupid, but also it kind of...works? Just makes him feel a little more grounded. And the thought of Jared smiling at him in encouragement is enough to get him to look in the mirror and say, “You are strong. You are brilliant. You are in control of your life and your company.” He doesn’t feel in control of much of anything, but saying it helps, just a little.

When he exits the bathroom, he runs into a young woman. Not in a charming, papers fluttering to the ground romantic comedy way, but in a bone-rattling thud of Richard's nose colliding with her skull and them both ending up on the ground in a tangle of knees way. 

"Shit!! Oh god I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, are you ok?" She kneels beside him and clutches his shoulders, maybe checking for a concussion? Richard isn’t really sure, too preoccupied with getting the cartoon birdies surrounding his head to go away. 

"Yeah, I'm, uh. I'm ok, I think." He blinks, shakes his head and she holds out a hand to help him up. 

"Oh god, and it looks like you're already injured!" she cries as she feels the bandages. Richard's vision has now cleared enough that he can see she’s pretty - very pretty - with dark brown hair that curls around her shoulders and startling blue eyes. He allows her to help him up to a standing position but she doesn’t drop his hand. "Gosh, you poor thing, what happened?"

"Oh um. I got burned," Richard says, craning his neck to look behind her for Gilfoyle and Dinesh. The meeting has to be close to starting. He spots Dinesh and starts to walk his way, but the woman follows him, still caught onto him and running her fingers over the bandages. 

"Does it hurt?"

"Uh, no, not so much anymore. Sorry, I really have to--"

"Where are my manners? I'm Charlotte Renfrow, I'm the information security manager here."

"Oh - _oh_! Hi, sorry, Richard. Hendricks, Richard Hendricks, that's me. Ha, not like a spy, like 'Bond, James Bond,' like I'm not here to spy or kill anybody, heh." At her polite smile, Richard presses on, "I'm, we're uh Pied Piper? I think you're, we're meeting now. Together." 

"You're absolutely right, please follow me." She leads them into a conference room and sits down, motioning for Richard to sit next to her. 

"We're just waiting on a couple of my associates. So, Richard, it must have been difficult running a company without the use of your hands! How did you manage?" Charlotte turns toward him in her swivel chair and crosses her legs, revealing a long stretch of smooth thigh. Richard hears Dinesh choke on the sip of water he was taking.

"Oh uh, it was no big deal honestly. These guys, um, Dinesh and Gilfoyle, they're the best, you know. Um we just kept at it, working on the code together, using like...synergy. To get the important stuff done. We've been working around the clock to get a decentralized model up and running." He feels fuzzy and tongue-tied, and he's sweating through his button-down already. He wishes this woman would stop asking him questions. He wishes that Jared was here.

"Wow," Charlotte replies, placing a hand on his arm in awe. "And you never took a single day off from running the company? Gosh, that's really inspirational. I can't imagine how strong you'd have to be to go through something like that...." 

Richard squirms, "It - it wasn't really a big deal."

He catches Dinesh's look of astonishment and half-shrugs back, like _I know, right? Why is she being so clingy?_

Just then two men walk into the conference room. A sinking feeling worms its way into Richard's stomach - he recognizes both of them as VCs who had been subjected to Erlich's "negging" a couple of years ago. He's pretty sure Erlich referred to one of them as a pig-faced rat cunt and the other one worked for the firm where Erlich answered every question by talking out of his butt cheeks like Ace Ventura._ Maybe they won't remember you, _Richard thought, but he sees their faces cloud over immediately. They're fucked.

Charlotte asks good questions, and Dinesh and Gilfoyle go through the basic engineering competently, but the VCs have already written Richard off from the moment they walked in. It doesn't help that Richard is sweaty, panicked, and desperately wishing he were in a dark, quiet room about a million miles away from here. They're crashing and burning, and there's nothing he can do about it. Just one more example of his incompetence he'll have to lay at Jared's feet, after he bent over backwards to get them this meeting. Charlotte can tell things aren't going well, and she lays a comforting hand on Richard's knee under the table. Richard jumps and hits his other leg on the underside of the table, hard. 

"Sorry, uh. Cramp," he lies, praying for this meeting to be over so he can go to his doctor's appointment and then back to the house where he will stay in his room for approximately one thousand years.

Miracle of miracles, one of the VCs pushes his chair back from the table with a grunt and says, "I think we have everything we need here, gentlemen. Thank you for coming in; we'll be in touch soon."

Richard mumbles his thanks and gets up from the table intending to leave as quickly as possible, but Charlotte stops him. 

"Sorry about that, Richard. I think my colleagues aren't quite ready for what you're proposing, but I'm fascinated by the applications. Maybe we could talk about it over a drink? I can hold your drink for you." She's a little shorter than Richard, even in heels, and looks up at him through her lashes with a bright, confident smile. 

"Sorry, I have to uh, I have a - a thing, I gotta go," he says, distracted, struggling to order an Uber on his phone. 

"Richard, a word, please?" Dinesh asks calmly and grabs Richard's elbow to drag him out of the conference room and into the lobby.

In a frantic whisper, he hisses, "What the fuck is wrong with you, that beautiful woman is clearly flirting with you! Like aggressively! It’s weird!" 

"What? No she's not," Richard scoffs, and focuses on trying not to accidentally order an UberPool like last time - fuck, at least that will be one benefit to getting these bandages off.

"Yes. She is. She clearly has a whole Florence Nightingale thing going on," Gilfoyle intones from behind Richard. "She wants your dick, Dick."

"Well, I don't want _her _dick," Richard says, squinting at his phone while he waits for...Pradeep in a blue Ford Fusion to show up. 

Charlotte clears her throat politely and all three men look up. Dinesh is the first one to break the silence. 

"I once spent six weeks in a hospital bed after I donated a kidney to my cousin in Pakistan. Hi, we didn't get a chance to meet earlier, Dinesh Chugtai..."

Richard's phone vibrates and he leaves Dinesh and Gilfoyle to fend for themselves as he leaves the first disaster of the day behind to go on to the second one.

***

"Alright, Bela Lugosi, time to get these bandages off so you can stop haunting this office!" Richard's doctor says cheerily, holding up a gleaming pair of medical scissors. 

"I think you mean Boris Karloff. And mummies don't haunt people in the traditional sense because they're corporeal, so it's more like a uh..c-curse." Richard stammers at the doctor's withering look. 

"No, I meant Bela Lugosi, because he's a blood-sucker and you're a fun-sucker, Richard. You suck fun."

Richard twists his mouth unhappily and says, "Can we just get this over with please?"

"Sure thing," the doctor says, slicing neatly through the bandages of Richard's left hand and examining the revealed skin. "Yep, looking good. This new skin may feel a bit tender or sensitive for a little while, but that's normal. Someone did an excellent job taking care of you, because this looks very well healed."

Richard feels a painful squeeze around his heart as he pictures Jared's face, calm and focused, wrapping and unwrapping the gauze around his hands in the dim light of his room. Cutting the crusts off his sandwiches. Leaving the door to the garage cracked open just a tiny bit. _Tending to you, that’s what he said before. _

“Yeah, one of the guys I live with, my uh. Business partner,” Richard says, but the words feel wrong in his mouth. Incomplete, small, clumsy. Jared’s so much more than that now. 

“I was talking about me, but okay,” the doctor replies, ignoring the roll of Richard’s eyes as he starts working on the other hand. 

It’s not that Richard wanted someone to take care of him like a fucking child. He can take care of himself, regardless of what the guys or this asshole doctor or his new hand skin has to say about it. But it’s nice having someone think about you, about your needs, someone looking out for you. 

_If that’s what you wanted, you would have gone for a drink with Charlotte. But you weren’t really interested in her, were you? _The voice inside him sounds like the boner goblin, but less unctuous, less sleazy, and he’s the farthest thing from horny right now as the doctor goes about his work. No, this voice seems like it’s coming from somewhere else, behind his ribs. 

_And it _was_ nice, wasn’t it? Letting someone take care of you? Care _about _you?_

It just. It feels so. When Jared does it, it’s. It’s so much better than anything else Richard has in his stupid failure of a life. 

_Aren’t you tired, Richard? _the heart goblin whispers. _Aren’t you so fucking tired of denying yourself this thing that you’ve wanted for so long? _

“Alright! We’re done here. Must feel good to have your hands back - what are you gonna touch first, Richard?” The doctor leans forward with a mischievous twinkle in his eye. “There’s a bathroom down the hall if you need...a private moment.”

“N-no, I don’t - I’m gonna just - ok, thank you! Bye.” And Richard scurries away to request a ride. He knows where he needs to go.

***

He lets himself into the garage quietly - knobs! He can turn knobs now! - and tries not to think about how he’s gambling everything he’s ever cared about, including Pied Piper, in doing this. Jared is standing by his cot, matching pairs of socks and humming quietly to himself. Richard watches him for a moment, the way his spine curves into a question mark each time he bends down to get more socks, the soft shine of his hair combed neatly into place like it always is. A pulse of desire moves through him, but it’s not like the previous times he’s been in this garage - it starts in his chest and seems to be carried through his bloodstream with every pump of his heart. Fuck, is this what this feels like? 

_Yes_, the heart goblin says simply. _And if you hadn’t been such a dumbass you probably would have noticed it before now. _

“Fuck,” Richard breathes and Jared spins around at the noise. 

“Fuck! Sorry, Jared, I didn’t mean to scare you, it’s just me.” He takes a couple steps forward so Jared can see him better, then almost wishes he hadn’t. Jared looks unsure, guarded, probably because of last night. When he finally speaks, it’s with his HR voice. 

“Richard, what a surprise! I wasn’t expecting you. How did the meeting go? I’m sorry I wasn’t able to attend, but I knew you would be in capable...hands...” he trails off, noticing the lack of bandages and the blotches of fresh, pink skin. His eyes snap up to Richard’s, and he drops the argyle socks he’s holding. 

"Richard!” he says, aghast, “You shouldn’t be walking around without your bandages on, you could get an infection! Do you need me to change them?" Jared turns, presumably to get his little first aid kit, but stops when RIchard speaks. 

"I lied," Richard blurts, and tries to keep going before he loses his nerve. "About the bandages, my hands are all better and I, well obviously I got them off today." He raises them to chest level to show Jared and does a jazz hands type maneuver that he immediately regrets.

"I don't understand, Richard. Why would you lie about that? Isn't that good news?"

Richard is brave enough to make his confession but not quite enough to look Jared in the eye while he does it. "Because I didn't want to stop. What we were doing, what YOU were doing, for me. And I know how fucked up that was and I'm sorry, I shouldn't have. But it was a _we_, I mean I was...fuck," he sighs, scrubbing a hand over his face, then marvelling at the ability to do so for a moment. This isn't going well and Jared is still looking at him with that Jared look on his face so Richard doesn't even think, just says the first thing to come out of his brain which is, "The doctor, he asked me what I wanted to touch first, y’know, with the bandages off and. It’s you. The only thing I want to touch is you.”

Jared lets out a little gasp that sounds like a sob, and Richard steps closer. “Is that ok? Do you want that?”

“You don’t mean it,” Jared whispers, barely moving his lips, and Richard nods frantically, “Yes I do, Jared, I mean it so fucking much.” His right hand reaches up, hesitant, slow. Giving Jared the chance to say no, to kick him out, to call him a liar and an asshole and any number of things far better than Richard deserves. Jared doesn’t say anything, though, just watches Richard’s face with those impossibly blue eyes until Richard’s fingers slowly slip through the short, sleek strands of Jared’s hair. Then Jared’s eyes slip shut and his lips part, and Richard lets out a shaky breath. He’s never felt anything more amazing; each nerve ending in his fingertips and his palms feel aware in a way he’s never experienced. The gentle brush of Jared’s hair feels like silk, and Richard digs his fingertips in, massaging Jared’s scalp, petting and stroking like he’s wanted to do for ages. A curl slips loose, a small inverted comma in the middle of Jared’s forehead that’s been dislodged from its nice and neat place by Richard’s fingers. It’s achingly attractive. Jared is breathing a little shallowly, leaning into Richard’s touch like a cat. Richard thrills at the idea that he might get the chance to roughen Jared’s smooth edges, to leave him mussed. 

“It’s so soft. You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to - “ he tugs just a little, experimentally, and Jared’s eyes fly open, a tiny aborted moan escaping his throat. Richard’s other hand comes up to cup Jared’s jaw, his thumb swiping once over that full bottom lip. 

“Jared? Jared, tell me if this is ok.” 

Jared doesn’t say anything. Instead, he leans in and presses his mouth hungrily against Richard’s. 

There are no voices in his head or his heart or his dick, just a full-body feeling of _rightness_ that shoots all through him, the same way it felt when he cracked middle-out. He knows he's not a great kisser or anything, but that doesn’t seem to matter right now because Jared _is_, and his arms are around Richard and they’re pressed flush and hot against each other and Richard’s hands are in Jared’s hair and it’s the best fucking kiss he’s ever had.

When they break apart, Richard is gasping, almost frantic, and Jared leans in so that their foreheads are touching. 

“What is it, Richard? Did I do something wrong?”

"No it’s - I’m sorry, I’m so fucking sorry, I wasted so much _time_. I never thought I was allowed - I didn’t--” his voice almost breaks. “I didn’t know I was allowed to have this.”

Jared makes a soft sound in the back of his throat, then clutches Richard closer. “It’s alright sweetheart, it’s alright, we’re here, aren’t we? We found each other, and,” here he takes a deep breath as if steadying himself, “if I’m being honest, you’ve had me since the day we met. And I think I’ve already made it clear that when it comes to me, you can have anything you want.” 

Richard has never been one to pay much attention to his body, usually to his own detriment. He’s so wrapped up inside his own mind that his body often feels detached, apart from him, like a car he’s driving around in. But as he kisses Jared again, he becomes very aware of every part of his body that is in contact with Jared’s. He's aware of the warmth seeping into his palms through the thin cotton of Jared's shirt. He's aware of the press of Jared's lips, the hot slide of his tongue as Richard opens up to him happily. But more than anything, he's aware of the feeling of Jared's skin under his fingertips. The velvety soft patch behind his ears, the slight rasp of stubble along his jawline, the tickle of downy softness at the nape of his neck. It's all he can focus on which is why it takes him a moment to realize Jared's hands are working between them, undoing the button of Richard's pants. 

Hands. Buttons. Wait. 

Richard breaks the kiss, breathless. “Wait, wait, I can - oh god, can I, Jared?” His fingers feel clumsy as he reaches to undo Jared’s pants instead and he feels the same kind of eager as he used to as a kid on Christmas morning. 

“Oh, Richard, you can--aahhh,” the rest of the sentence dies on Jared’s lips as Richard roughly shoves his pants and boxers down and wraps a hand around his cock.

“Oh gosh,” Jared says a little helplessly, and Richard goes up on his tiptoes to kiss him again just because he can. He pumps Jared slowly, experimentally, enjoying the weight of him, enraptured by the blood-hot silken feel of him in his hand. Feels him get a little harder and his own blood surges at how powerful it makes him feel, how in control. He likes it so much it scares him a little. Now that he's had a taste, he's going to want to make Jared feel like this all the time.

"Richard, I - oh, let me, darling, please," Jared gasps, trying to reach for Richard to touch him too. 

"Let's, here - lay down," Richard commands and regretfully lets Jared go so he can half shove his own pants down and they can arrange themselves together on Jared's narrow cot, facing each other. The gravity of the moment settles around Richard and he slowly reaches down to trace his fingers along Jared's erection from root to tip, a light tease.

He leans in close and whispers in Jared's ear, "Does that feel good?" 

Jared's full body shiver and low moan is all the answer he needs. He shuffles forward a little and wraps his hand around Jared again, stroking him firmly and kissing open-mouthed under the shelf of his jaw. He can't get enough of learning the shape of Jared, listening to the tiny sounds he makes as Richard strokes and squeezes and rubs the pad of his thumb just under the head of Jared's cock. He catalogues every twitch, every sigh, delighting in the knowledge that he’s doing this to Jared, that Jared feels good _because of him_. But when he tries to wrap his hand around them both, he falters - "fuck, I can't - my hands aren't as big as yours, I--"

"How about tip-to-tip?" Jared says with a cheeky kind of grin, and Richard wants to keep him forever. Jared knits their fingers together and begins to stroke them both in tandem, and Richard groans at the feel of it, the pressure and the heat. When Jared’s thumb strokes over the head of his dick, he shivers, electric, and rolls his hips with more purpose just to hear Jared moan. 

“God, baby, I love your hands,” Richard breathes and surges up to kiss Jared again. It’s been almost a whole minute since the last time Jared was kissing him and he feels starved for it, desperate. It might be the kiss or the endearment or the emotional overload, but Jared’s breath is growing ragged and his hips are beginning to stutter. Richard can tell he’s close. He untangles his hand from Jared’s and takes over - the impatient, grabby goblin inside him wants to be the one to make Jared come more than anything he’s ever wanted before. Greedy as ever, he watches each stroke with rapt attention, watches the way the purpling head of Jared’s hard cock disappears and reappears in his fist, and the words start spilling out of his mouth before he can stop them.

“That’s right, lemme see it, let me - you feel so fucking good, Jared, I never want to stop touching you, you’re like - so perfect for me and I know you’re close baby please let me, wanna see, it’s mine, you’re mine, please--”

Whatever other request he was going to make gets lost just then. With a high, giddy cry, Jared’s whole body tenses and he comes vigorously over Richard’s fist. Richard made him feel that, made him do that, and a sense of immense satisfaction washes over him. 

He doesn’t get to bask very long before Jared brings him back to his body: he pins Richard flat on his back and scoots down, and before Richard knows what’s happening, Jared is taking him into his mouth as far as he can. It takes barely any time with the way Jared’s cheeks hollow around him and his tongue works over him, and soon Richard is spilling into his mouth while whimpering Jared’s name over and over. 

Now that they’re both firmly in the afterglow, Jared tucks up behind Richard as the big spoon and lets his hand idly play across Richard’s lower belly while Richard runs his hand over Jared’s larger one. Richard feels peaceful, and quiet, and so, so safe.

Suddenly, a growl rumbles through Richard’s stomach, loud enough to surprise them both. He hadn’t really eaten before the meeting at Khosia - _god, was that earlier today? - _and now he’s ravenous. 

“My goodness, Richard! Do you want me to make you something?”

“No, I - look, Jared, I’ve been thinking about this. And I like you taking care of me but also, like, I _can _look after my own basic human needs, and besides, what if I want to take care of you too, hm? I could make us both something to eat. How about that?”

Jared doesn’t say anything and Richard shifts to look at him. His look of terrified optimism is enough of an answer.

“Ok, fine. You’re probably right. But what if we um. We could maybe make something together?”

Jared smiles, his secret Jared smile that’s only for Richard to see, and the sun begins to set, spilling golden light through the tiny window near the ceiling in the garage.


End file.
